POSTHUMOUS 
POEMS 4  4  *  ' 
ALGERNON  CHARLES 
SWINBURNE 


FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


pwtoon      SCCL 

Section  /Q     0O<4- 


A 


THE  POSTHUMOUS  WORKS  OF 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 


APR  12  1934 

POSTHUMOUS 
POEMS 


By 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


Edited  by  Edmund  Gos§e,  C.B. 
and  Thomas  James  Wise 


NEW   YORK:   JOHN   LANE    COMPANY 

LONDON:  WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 

MCMXVIII 


COPYRIGHT,    191 8, 
By  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

THE  poems  which,  with  the  help  of  Mr. 
Thos.  J.  Wise,  I  have  endeavoured  in  the  follow- 
ing pages  to  present,  as  far  as  possible,  in 
chronological  sequence,  belong  to  the  whole 
range  of  Swinburne's  career  as  an  author.  The 
earliest  wag  composed  in  1857,  the  latest  is 
dated  1907,  and  accordingly  they  cover,  in  their 
rapid  and  fluctuating  passage,  exactly  half  a 
century.  Various  circumstances,  some  of  which 
will  presently  be  told,  though  the  majority  have 
doubtless  ceased  to  be  discoverable,  led  to  their 
being  suppressed  or  forgotten,  but  none  of  them 
were  destroyed  by  the  poet,  and  of  none  of  them 
have  we  found  any  evidence  that  he  wished  for 
their  destruction.  The  only  exception  is  the 
unsuccessful  prize  poem  of  1858.  This,  there 
is  reason  to  believe,  Swinburne  did  wish,  in  the 
exasperation  of  disappointment,  to  wipe  out  of 
existence.  But  his  father's  care  in  concealing 
this  innocent  from  the  massacre  of  his.  son's 
juvenile  verses,  was  justified  by  the  merit  of  so 
remarkable  a  poem,  which,  on  historical  and 
critical  grounds  alike,  we  have  determined  to 

v 


PREFACE 

restore.  There  passed  into  our  hands  also  other 
pieces  which  we  have  reason  to  believe  the  poet 
wished  to  suppress,  or  on  mature  reflection 
would  have  so  wished.  These  we  have  not 
printed.  Our  desire  has  been  to  be  loyal  to  his 
memory,  and  we  are  here  giving  to  the  world 
nothing  but  what  we  believe  that  he  would  con- 
sent to  give  if  he  could  direct  our  conduct. 

The  principal  exception  to  the  chronological 
arrangement  adopted  in  this  volume  is  the  plac- 
ing at  the  forefront  of  the  book  the  eleven  border 
ballads  which  Mr.  Wise  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
discover  among  the  MSS.  which  he  bought  in 
1909  from  Watts-Dunton.1  The  rough  drafts 
of  these  ballads  were  found  among  MSS.  of  the 
years  1862  and  1863,  and  the  character  of  the 
handwriting,  as  well  as  of  the  paper,  leads  us 
to  believe  that  they  belong  to  this  period.  With 
them  were  found  several  of  the  ballads  published 
at  last  in  the  Third  Series  of  Poems  and  Ballads 
(1889)  but  provisionally  set  up  in  type  in  1877. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  Swinburne  hesitated 
long  as  to  whether  he  should  give  to  the  public 
any  of  his  more  primitive  border  ballads.  At 
an  early  age  he  had  been  attracted  to  this  class 
of  poetry  by  the  study  of  Scott's  Border 
Minstrelsy  of  1 802-3,  an  examination  of  which 

1  We  owe  the  communication  of  a  MS.  of  Wearieswa  to 
the  kindness  of  Mr.  Sydney  C.  Cockerell. 

vi 


PREFACE 

will  show  that  it  contains,  then  published  for 
the  first  time,  all  the  ballads  which  most  power- 
fully affected  Swinburne's  imagination.  "Kin- 
mont  Willie,"  "The  Lament  of  the  Border 
Widow,"  "Johnnie  of  Braidislee,"  and  a  dozen 
others  which  peculiarly  attracted  Swinburne 
were  unknown  until  Scott  printed  them  in  the 
Border  Minstrelsy. 

But  that  invaluable  miscellany  also  contained 
a  large  number  of  "Imitations,"  towards  which 
Scott  was  only  a  little  less  lenient  than  had  been 
Percy  and  the  other  editors  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Both  Leyden  and  Scott,  who  did  so 
much  to  enlarge  and  to  ensure  our  knowledge 
of  ballad  literature,  continued  to  believe  the  true 
border  volkslied  to  be  a  thing  too  rough  for 
direct  imitation.  Modern  ballads  were  defined 
by  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  "supposed  capable  of 
uniting  the  vigorous  numbers  and  wild  fiction, 
which  occasionally  charm  us  in  the  ancient 
ballad,  with  a  greater  equality  of  versification, 
and  elegance  of  sentiment,  than  we  can  expect 
to  find  in  the  works  of  a  rude  age."  The  con- 
viction that  the  original  ballads  were  barbarous 
productions,  without  art  or  skill  of  any  kind,  but 
agreeable  only  when  polished  and  improved, 
went  so  far  and  so  late  that  even  in  1859  Robert 
Chambers,  a  ver^  thoughtful  and  practised  critic 
of  their  text,  started  the  theory  that  all  the 

vii 


PREFACE 

romantic  Scottish  ballads  had  enjoyed  revision 
by  Elizabeth,  Lady  Wardlaw,  about  the  year 
1700.  This  was  absurd,  and  the  best  critics 
perceived  the  fascinating  beauty  of  texts  which 
were  manifestly  antique.  But  still  the  notion 
persisted  that  a  "modern"  ballad  must  be  neater, 
smoother  and  less  savage  than  a  genuine  product 
of  the  old  Northumbrian  border. 

It  is  doubtless  to  this  prejudice,  which  was 
still  universal  sixty  years  ago,  that  we  owe  the 
fact  that  Swinburne's  best  border  ballads  have 
remained  unpublished  to  this  day.  In  1862, 
which  is  the  date  to  which  we  attribute  "Lord 
Soulis"  and  "Lord  Scales,"  Swinburne  was  in 
the  constant  society  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti, 
to  whose  judgment  he  appealed  on  every  occa- 
sion, and  to  whom  all  his  poems  were  recited 
directly  they  were  composed.  Rossetti  himself 
was  greatly  interested  in  resuscitating  this  form 
of  lyric,  and  in  "Stratton  Water"  we  have  an 
example  of  his  success  in  composing  an  "imita- 
tion" ballad  of  real  merit.  With  this  may  be 
compared  Swinburne's  own  "We  were  ten  maid- 
ens in  the  green  corn"  and  "Stand  up,  stand  up, 
thou  Mary  Janet"  of  the  volume  of  1866.  In 
these  published  ballads  of  Rossetti  and  Swin- 
burne a  great  deal  of  the  simplicity  of  the 
originals  is  preserved,  but  there  is  a  literary  pre- 
occupation, and  something  of  what  Sir  Walter 

viii 


PREFACE 

Scott  meant  by  "elegance  of  sentiment."  It 
seems  to  be  certain  that  the  ballads  of  Swinburne 
which  we  print  in  this  collection,  were  regarded 
by  Rossetti,  and  probably  by  Morris  also,  as  too 
rough  and  bare  for  publication,  and  that  only 
such  as  possessed  a  pre-Raphaelite  colouring  or 
costume  were  permitted  to  pass  the  ordeal.  But 
Swinburne  persisted  in  his  private  conviction 
that  a  kind  of  poetry  much  closer  to  the  old 
rievers'  and  freebooters'  loosely-jointed  and 
rambling  folk-poems  might  be  attempted,  and 
he  carefully  preserved  the  ballads  which  we 
have  the  privilege  of  publishing  to-day.  There 
can  be  little  doubt  that  in  such  rugged  pieces 
as  "The  Worm  of  Spindlestonheugh"  and 
"Duriesdyke,"  the  aboriginal  Northumbrian 
accent  is  more  closely  reproduced  than  in  any 
other  "imitation"  border  ballad. 

With  regard  to  Swinburne's  unequalled  skill 
in  reproducing  the  texture  of  style,  a  craft  of 
which  he  has  left  a  wide  range  of  examples, 
Mr.  Sydney  C.  Cockerell  tells  me  that  William 
Morris,  when  he  was  dying,  started  making  a 
selection  of  border  ballads,  which  he  declared 
were  the  finest  poems  in  the  English  language, 
to  be  printed  at  the  Kelmscott  Press.  The 
difficulties  of  gaps  and  various  readings  were  too 
great  for  Morris  in  his  enfeebled  condition,  and 
Mr.  Cockerell  suggested  that  the  editing  should 

ix 


PREFACE 

be  handed  over  to  Swinburne.  "Oh,  no!" 
answered  Morris,  "that  would  never  do.  He 
would  be  writing-in  verses  that  no  one  would 
be  able  to  tell  from  the  original  stuff!"  The 
ballads  we  publish  to-day  will  show  the  complete 
justice  of  Morris's  remark. 

There  is  not  much  to  be  said  with  regard  to 
the  individual  ballads  or  their  sources  in  history. 
So  far  as  can  be  discovered,  no  ancient  ballad  of 
"Lord  Soulis"  exists,  but  the  hero,  in  whose 
legend  Sir  Walter  Scott  took  a  vivid  interest, 
was  a  historical  personage.  The  family  name 
recurs  frequently  in  the  records  of  Scottish 
charters  granted  during  the  fourteenth  century, 
and  we  are  told  that  William,  Lord  Soulis,  was 
one  of  the  most  powerful  barons  in  the  south- 
west of  Scotland.  He  was  of  royal  descent,  and 
in  pursuance  of  his  claim  to  the  Scottish  throne, 
he  conspired  against  Robert  the  Bruce.  This 
plot  was  discovered  by  the  acuteness  of  Lady 
Strathern.  Lord  Soulis  was  arrested  at  the  head 
of  a  troop  at  Berwick  in  1320,  and,  his  life  being 
spared  by  the  King,  his  estates  were  forfeited 
and  he  was  secretly  confined  for  the  rest  of  his 
years  in  the  royal  castle  of  Dumbarton.  Prob- 
ably owing  to  his  disappearance,  a  legend  grew 
up  that  Lord  Soulis  had  been  ignominiously  ex- 
ecuted with  the  King's  connivance,  and  it  was 
generally  believed  that  he  had  been  boiled  to 


PREFACE 

death  within  the  Druid  circle  of  Nine-Stone- 
Rig,  which  overlooks  and  slopes  down  to  the 
Water  of  Hermitage.  The  cauldron  in  which 
the  unfortunate  Soulis  was  said  to  have  been 
sodden  was  long  exhibited  to  the  credulous  in 
Liddesdale. 

What  foundation  there  may  have  been  for 
the  popular  belief  that  Lord  Soulis  was  a  wiz- 
ard, and  held  communion  with  evil  spirits,  it  is 
now  hopeless  to  conjecture.  John  Leyden 
(1775-1811)  put  together  all  the  rumours  which 
he  could  collect  in  the  rambling  poem  of  "Lord 
Soulis"  which  he  wrote  about  1801,  and  which 
Scott  afterwards  annotated.  Leyden  caught 
something  of  the  true  ballad  note,  and  he  had 
the  advantage  of  being  himself  a  borderer,  the 
descendant  of  small  farmers  long  settled  in 
Teviotdale. 

Swinburne's  ballad  follows  Leyden's  in  no 
respect,  except  in  the  indispensable  particular  of 
the  boiling  of  Lord  Soulis  as  a  wizard.  The 
three  fair  mays  and  the  raiding  of  Eastness  and 
Westness  appear  to  be  Swinburne's  invention, 
but  they  follow  exactly  the  ancient  type  of 
border  minstrelsy.  Everything  which  regarded 
the  castle  of  Hermitage  was  romantically  pre- 
cious to  this  latest  lover  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 

What  led  Swinburne  to  the  story  of  "Lord 
Scales"  it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture.     A  barony 

xi 


PREFACE 

of  Scales  was  founded  in  1299,  an^  continued  to 
exist  until  1460,  when  the  seventh  and  last  Lord 
Scales,  who  had  been  a  great  enemy  of  the 
common  people  and  a  supporter  of  Henry  IV 
against  Jack  Cade  at  home  and  the  Normans 
abroad,  is  said  to  have  been  murdered.  The 
barony  then  fell  into  abeyance.  But  these 
Scaleses  were  a  Herefordshire  family,  and  had 
no  special  border  reputation.  If  Swinburne 
intended  to  describe  Robert,  first  Lord  Scales, 
that  worthy,  who  died  in  1305,  had  been  most 
active  in  France.  The  ballad  of  "Lord  Scales" 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  universal  poison- 
ballad  of  Lord  Randal.  Nor  has  "Earl  Robert" 
any  connection  with  the  ballad-hero  whose 
mother  poisons  him  because  he  has  /married 
Mary  Florence  against  the  mother's  will.  This 
is  an  instance  in  which  Swinburne  has  retold 
a  well-known  ballad-legend ;  there  are  four  ver- 
sions of  the  story  in  Motherwell,  and  they  all 
differ  from  Swinburne's. 

But  a  special  interest  attaches  to  "The  Worm 
of  Spindlestonheugh,"  where  we  find  Swinburne 
attempting  to  reconstruct  the  lost  work  of  a  real 
Northumbrian  minstrel.  There  is  known  to 
have  existed  an  authentic  ballad  of  "The  Laid- 
ley  Worm  of  Spindlestoneheugh."  When 
Hutchinson  was  writing  his  History  of  North- 
umberland in  1768,  a  local  clergyman,  the  Rev- 

xii 


PREFACE 

erend  Robert  Lamb,  of  Norham,  communicated 
to  him  a  ballad  with  that  title,  which  Hutchin- 
son printed  in  1776.  It  has  long  been  admitted 
that  this  was  a  forgery,  although  Lamb  pre- 
tended to  have  copied  it  "f  rom  an  ancient  manu- 
script," and  attributed  it  to  an  unknown 
mediaeval  poet,  Duncan  Frasier.  But  there  have 
been  reported  other  ballads  on  the  same  subject, 
and  it  is  now  generally  admitted  that  there  ex- 
isted, and  still  survived  near  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  a  genuine  ancient  ballad  of 
"The  Worm  of  Spindlestoneheugh."  It  was, 
moreover,  the  opinion  of  Professor  Child  that 
Lamb  must  have  woven  into  his  forgery  a  good 
many  strands  of  the  lost  original. 

Between  these  fragments  and  imitations,  and 
Swinburne's  spirited  poem,  there  is  practically 
no  resemblance,  except  in  the  conventional 
description  of  the  Worm,  or  fire-drake,  the 
tradition  of  which  seems  to  have  been  widely 
diffused.  In  the  genuine  ballad  of  "The  Hagg 
Worm,"  we  read — 

"Word's  gone  east,  and  word's  gone  west, 
And  word's  gane  over  the  sea, — 
There's  a  laidler  worm  in  Spindlestoneheughs 
Will  destroy  the  North  Countree." 

The  metamorphosis  of  a  beautiful  maiden 
into  a  snake,  dragon  or  "worm,"  the  Schlangen- 
jungfrau  of  Icelandic  saga  and  Teutonic  legend, 

xiii 


PREFACE 

is  broadly  disseminated.  It  is  the  subject  of  such 
famous  primitive  ballads  as  "Kemp  Owyne"  (or 
"Kempion")  and  "The  Machrel  of  the  Sea." 
Swinburne  is  seen  here  in  the  act  of  composing, 
on  this  familiar  theme,  a  ballad  in  which  no 
modern  or  "elegant"  touch  should  distract  a 
reader  from  believing  that  this  was  the  genuine 
poem  which  is  known  to  have  once  existed  in 
connection  with  Bamborough  Castle.  The  dis- 
tinction between  this  design,  and  that  which  led 
Swinburne  to  compose  the  more  or  less  pre- 
Raphaelite  ballads  of  the  volume  of  1866,  does 
not  require  emphatic  statement. 

The  Ode  to  Mazzini  was  found  after  Swin- 
burne's death,  in  an  old  copy-book,  from  which 
many  leaves  had  already  been  torn,  presumably 
by  himself.  Perhaps  the  removal  of  these  loos- 
ened a  page  of  the  Ode  to  Mazzini,  containing 
the  close  of  Strophe  IV  and  the  whole  of  Strophe 
V,  for  these,  unfortunately,  have  disappeared. 
From  this  imperfect  text  Mr.  T.  J.  Wise  pri- 
vately printed  the  Ode  to  Mazzini,  in  November 
1909,  in  an  edition  of  only  twenty  copies.  In 
1916,  however,  another  copy  of  the  MS.  was 
bequeathed  by  Miss  Isabel  Swinburne  to  the 
British  Museum,  which,  besides  giving  the  miss- 
ing strophes,  supplied  several  minor  corrections. 
It  had  the  appearance  of  being  copied  a  good 
deal  later,  perhaps  in  a  moment  of  revived  in- 

xiv 


PREFACE 

terest  about  i860.  This  second  MS.  has  been 
followed  in  the  present  text. 

It  may  be  well  to  point  out  that  at  the  time 
he  wrote,  and  for  long  years  to  come,  Swinburne 
seems  to  have  had  no  personal  knowledge  of 
Mazzini.  But  he  followed  with  ardent  sym- 
pathy the  propaganda  of  the  friends  of  Young 
Italy  in  London,  at  the  head  of  whose  executive 
council  stood  the  inspiring  name  of  Walter  Sav- 
age Landor. 

The  original  MSS.  contain  no  indication  of 
date,  and  the  generally  rhetorical  character  of 
the  poetry  makes  it  at  first  sight  impossible  to 
obtain  any  such  term.  But  on  a  close  examina- 
tion, one  point  after  another  becomes  luminous, 
and  we  can  at  length,  with  almost  perfect  con- 
fidence, date  the  composition  of  this  ode  within 
a  few  months.  The  first  salient  observation 
which  the  reader  makes  is  concerned  with 
Strophe  XVII,  in  which  we  learn  that  Poerio 
was  still  a  prisoner  when  it  was  written.  But 
Baron  Carlo  Poerio — whose  case  had  been,  in 
1851,  so  eloquently  brought  before  the  English 
public  by  Gladstone,  in  his  letters  to  Lord 
Aberdeen — was  released  from  his  prison  on  the 
"foul  wild  rocks"  of  the  island  of  Nisida  in 
December  1858.  This  fact  was  widely  known 
in  England,  and  Swinburne  would  certainly 
have  learned  it.     Moreover,  had  the  ode  been 

xv 


PREFACE 

written  subsequent  to  January  1858,  it  could  not 
but  have  contained  some  reference  ta  the  at- 
tempt of  Orsini,  which  so  greatly  embarrassed 
the  action  of  Mazzini  and  rendered  the  policy 
of  Sardinia  so  difficult,  besides  thrilling  Swin- 
burne to  the  depths  of  his  being. 

Everything,  on  the  other  hand,  points  to 
1857  as  tne  Year  m  which  this  ode  was  com- 
posed. Strophe  VII,  with  its  strange  reference 
to  the  "priestly  hunters,"  and  the  close  of 
Strophe  IX,  are  intelligible  only  in  reference  to 
Cavour's  attempts  to  encourage  the  Papacy  in 
its  efforts,  half-hearted  enough,  to  check  the 
violence  of  Austria  and  the  guilt  of  Naples.  In 
this  connection,  the  reader  of  to-day  may  be 
surprised  to  find  no  acknowledgment  of  the 
services  of  the  great  "regenerator  of  Italy." 
But  Swinburne,  all  through  life,  was  unjust  to 
Cavour,  because  of  his  monarchical  tendencies, 
as  were  at  that  moment  the  leaders  of  "Young 
Italy,"  with  Mazzini  himself  at  their  head. 
It  is  observable  that  the  notion  of  the  one 
and  indivisible  Republic,  which  pervades  and 
animates  Songs  before  Sunrise  from  beginning 
to  end,  is  not  suggested  in  the  Ode  to  Mazzini. 
Swinburne  had  not  yet  accepted  such  an  idea; 
in  1857  his  own  boyish  hopes  were  bounded, 
as  were  the  more  adult  desires  of  Mazzini,  by 
the  frontiers  of  Italy. 

xvi 


PREFACE 

The  moment  when  the  ode  was  written  must 
have  been  early  in  1857.  Sardinia  was  pro- 
voking Austria  to  a  violent  act,  so  as  to  make 
war  inevitable:  the  house  of  Naples  was  filling 
the  cup  of  its  iniquities;  "out  of  a  court  alive 
with  creeping  things"  the  stiletto  of  Agesilao 
Milano  had  flashed  on  the  8th  of  December, 
1856,  but  had  failed  to  slay  the  detestable 
Bomba,  a  disappointment  obscurely  referred  to 
in  the  latter  part  of  Strophe  XIII.  On  the  16th 
of  March,  1857,  Vienna  could  bear  no  longer 
the  violent  attacks  of  the  Italian  Press  on 
Austrian  tyranny  in  Lombardy,  and  the 
Ambassador  withdrew  from  Turin.  Mazzini 
immediately  left  London,  where  he  had  resided 
since  he  fled  from  Rome,  and  descended  once 
more  upon  Italy.  He  found  that  distraction 
was  rife  among  the  friends  of  the  Republic,  and 
that  hope  was  dying  out,  "like  a  forgotten  tale." 
It  was  at  this  moment,  almost  without  question, 
that  SwTinburne  composed  his  Ode  to  Mazzini, 
in  the  hour  of  suspense.  The  careful  reader  will 
not  fail  to  observe  that  the  poet  has  not  yet 
heard  of  any  acts  which  Mazzini  has  performed 
on  the  soil  of  Italy.  Had  the  insurrections  at 
Genoa  (June  1857)  and  Leghorn  occurred,  or 
had  the  attack  on  Naples,  led  by  Pisacane,  Maz- 
zini's  friend,  been  made,  the  poet  must  have 
celebrated  them  in  his  verse. 

xvii 


PREFACE 

Everything,  then,  tends  to  show  that  Swin- 
burne composed  this  ode  in  the  Spring  of  1857. 
He  was  just  twenty  years  of  age,  and  this  was, 
with  all  its  puerile  shortcomings,  the  most 
powerful  and  accomplished  work  which  he  had 
written  up  to  that  time.  We  are,  therefore, 
met  by  the  question:  Why  did  he  publish  it 
neither  then,  nor  later?  For  this  an  answer  is 
readily  forthcoming.  In  1857  he  had  no  means 
of  publishing  anything,  except  the  slight  and 
imitative  verses  which  he  presently  contributed 
to  Undergraduate  Papers.  For  that  ephemeral 
periodical,  the  Ode  to  Mazzini  was  eminently 
unfitted.  But  the  tide  of  history  was  running 
fast,  and  the  lyric  visions  of  1857  were  soon  left 
high  and  dry  on  the  shore  of  time.  After  the 
diplomatic  isolation  of  Austria  in  1858,  after  the 
war  ending  with  the  Peace  of  Villafranca  in 
July  1859,  after  the  death  of  Bomba  and  the 
capture  of  the  Two  Sicilies  by  Garibaldi  in 
i860,  Swinburne's  wTild  and  vague  aspirations 
became  hopelessly  old-fashioned.  The  interest 
of  his  ode  was  temporary,  and  its  political 
purpose  had  ceased  to  exist. 

Another  reason  why,  when  Swinburne  became 
a  prominent  poet,  he  could  not  publish  the  Ode 
to  Mazzini,  may  be  found  in  its  form.  It  is  an 
irregular  ode,  of  the  Pindaresque  sort,  on  the 
model    which  was   invented   by   Cowley,    and 

xviii 


PREFACE 

constantly  employed  during  the  close  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  but  repudiated,  in  a  bril- 
liant and  learned  essay,  by  Congreve,  as  founded 
on  a  total  misconception  of  the  laws  of  Pindar's 
prosody.  Later,  Swinburne  perceived  the  falsity 
of  the  "Pindaresque"  ode,  and  his  mature  poems 
are  types  of  disciplined  evolution.  There  were 
therefore  reasons  of  various  kinds,  external  and 
internal,  why  the  Ode  to  Mazzini,  if  not  printed 
soon  after  it  was  written,  could  not  be  printed 
by  Swinburne  at  all. 

Of  Swinburne's  undergraduate  poems  some 
other  examples  have  been  preserved,  and  will  be 
found  in  the  ensuing  pages.  In  1857  trie  sub- 
ject given  at  Oxford  for  the  Newdigate  Prize 
was  "The  Temple  of  Janus."  Both  John  Nichol 
and  Swinburne  were  competitors,  and  each 
declared  that  the  other  was  sure  to  be  successful. 
It  was,  however,  awarded  to  Philip  Stanhope 
Worsley  of  Corpus  (1835- 1866),  afterwards  a 
distinguished  translator  of  Homer.  Swinburne 
and  Nichol  went  to  hear  Worsley  read  his 
poem  at  Commemoration,  and  the  late  Mr. 
Pringle  Nichol  obliged  me  with  this  anecdote. 
The  two  unsuccessful  poets  were  not  indis- 
posed to  be  critical,  when  Nichol,  hearing  the 
line — 

"Stars  in  their  courses  fought  the  fight  of  Rome," 
xix 


PREFACE 

whispered  to  his  companion,  "That's  fine"; 
whereupon  Swinburne  snapped  out,  "Why,  it's 
in  the  Bible !" 

No  trace  has  been  found  of  "The  Temple  of 
Janus,"  but  the  following  year  Swinburne  again 
tried  for  the  Newdigate.  The  subject  given  for 
the  Prize  Poem,  to  be  awarded  in  March  1858, 
was  "The  Discovery  of  the  North-West  Pas- 
sage." At  this  date,  the  loss  of  Franklin  and 
his  companions  was  universally  accepted,  al- 
though it  was  not  until  May  1859  that  McClin- 
tock  discovered  the  memorandum  proving  the 
death  of  Franklin  to  have  taken  place  on  the 
nth  of  June,  1847.  Swinburne's  poem  takes 
for  granted  that  the  whole  party  died  together, 
but  it  is  now  known  that  the  leader,  by  suc- 
cumbing earlier,  escaped  the  terrible  sufferings 
of  those  who  survived  him.  Swinburne's  verses 
eloquently  transcribe  the  general  sentiment 
which  prevailed  all  over  the  world  until  the 
return  of  the  Fox  in  1859. 

In  late  years,  Swinburne  was  never  known  to 
make  the  slightest  reference  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  entered  the  lists  again,  and  this  time  without 
the  support  or  rivalry  of  Nichol.  His  disap- 
pointment at  failure — for  the  prize  was  awarded 
to  a  Mr.  Francis  Low  Latham,  of  Brazenose 
College — must  have  been  acute.  Lord  Bryce 
remembers  that  the  Old  Mortality  were  indig- 

xx 


PREFACE 

nant  at  Swinburne's  not  being  the  winner,  from 
which  it  seems  likely  that  he  read  his  poem  to 
the  members  of  the  club.  He  certainly  read  it 
to  Stubbs,  who  considered  his  success  more  than 
probable.  We  cannot  but  be  astonished  that 
the  judges  were  not  struck  by  the  extraordinary 
merits  of  the  poem,  by  its  melody,  by  its  high 
strain  of  feeling,  by  its  patriotism  and  dignity. 
No  successful  Newdigate,  we  may  believe,  has 
ever  excelled  it  in  solid  beauty  since  the  founda- 
tion of  the  prize.  But  it  is  possible  that  the 
examiners  did  not  even  read  it.  By  the  will  of 
Sir  Roger  Newdigate,  the  only  permissible 
metre  was  the  heroic  couplet.  Doubtless  the 
metre  of  Swinburne's  poem  was  considered 
irregular  enough  to  make  the  poem  ineligible. 

Not  very  much  requires  to  be  said  about  the 
miscellaneous  pieces.  The  paraphrase  of  Dies 
Irce  is  very  early,  not  later,  certainly,  than  1857. 
Possibly  it  was  produced  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Warden  of  Radley  during  one  of  Swinburne's 
visits  to  St.  Peter's  College.  There  exists  a 
careful  prose  translation  of  the  Latin  poem, 
evidently  of  the  same  date,  in  Swinburne's  hand- 
writing. King  Ban  is  a  fragment  from  an  at- 
tempt to  put  the  early  chapters  of  the  Morte 
a"  Arthur  into  blank  verse.  King  Ban  of  Ben- 
wick  and  King  Bors  of  Gaul  were,  it  will  be 
remembered,  the  two  good  kings  who  supported 

xxi 


PREFACE 

Arthur  and  fought  with  him  against  Claudas 
and  the  Eleven  Bad  Kings.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that  it  was  from  precisely  this  section  of 
the  Arthurian  epic  that  Swinburne  took,  long 
afterwards,  The  Tale  of  Balen. 

"In  the  Twilight"  was  almost  certainly  writ- 
ten in  October  1867,  when  Victor  Emmanuel, 
acting  under  the  advice  of  Ratazzi,  had  en- 
deavoured to  confine  Garibaldi  to  his  island.  It 
was  probably  rejected  from  Songs  before  Sun- 
rise on  account  of  its  similarity  of  subject  and 
tone  with  "A  Watch  in  the  Night." 

The  greater  part  of  the  poems  here  published 
were  hidden,  unknown  to  Watts-Dunton,  at  the 
Pines.  All  round  Swinburne's  sitting-room 
there  were  discovered  after  his  death  unsightly 
rolls  or  parcels  tied  up  in  old  newspaper,  some 
of  them  looking  as  if  they  had  not  been  opened 
for  half  a  century.  These  parcels  were  found 
to  contain  proofs,  bills,  letters,  prospectuses  and 
every  species  of  rubbish,  together  with  occa- 
sional MSS.  in  prose  and  verse.  On  reflection, 
it  became  evident  what  they  were.  For  many 
years  Swinburne  was  in  the  habit  of  allowing 
miscellaneous  material  to  gather  on  his  table, 
until  a  moment  came  when  he  could  bear  the 
pressure  of  it  no  longer.  He  would  then  gather 
everything  up,  tie  the  whole  in  the  current 
newspaper  of  the  day,  and  then  delicately  place 

xxii 


PREFACE 

it  on  a  shelf,  where  it  never  was  again  disturbed. 
A  fresh  heap  would  then  begin  to  grow,  till 
the  day  when  the  poet  suddenly  pounced  upon 
it,  and  doomed  it  to  the  recesses  of  another 
newspaper.  Through  a  great  part  of  his  life, 
Swinburne  seems  to  have  carried  out  this  curious 
plan,  and  in  earlier  days,  when  he  wandered 
from  lodging-house  to  lodging-house,  he  must 
always  have  carried  with  him  his  carpet-bag  of 
newspaper  parcels. 

It  took  a  very  long  time  to  sort  out  the 
contents  of  these  packages,  and  to  examine  and 
verify  the  poems  which  seemed  to  be  unfamiliar. 
In  this  laborious  and  delightful  work  Mr.  Wise 
was  kind  enough  to*  associate  me  from  the  first, 
since  Watts-Dunton's  interest  in  the  matter  had 
become  entirely  a  financial  one.  At  last,  in  the 
summer  of  1913,  we  satisfied  ourselves  that  no 
more  early  poetry  of  a  nature  fitted  for  publica- 
tion would  turn  up,  and  we  began  to  arrange  the 
discovered  pieces  which  are  now  at  last  given 
to  the  public. 

There  is  a  section  of  Swinburne's  lyrical  writ- 
ing which  has  often  been  talked  of,  but  will  not 
at  present  escape  our  guardianship.  Once,  in  the 
sixties,  Jowett  drove  the  poet  home  from  a  din- 
ner, and  some  one  asking  the  Master  afterwards 
how  Swinburne  had  behaved,  Jowett  answered 
with  an  indulgent  smile,  "O,  he  sang  all  the  way, 

xxiii 


PREFACE 

— bad  songs — very  bad  songs."  The  world  is 
growing  less  and  less  censorious,  and  more  and 
more  willing  to  be  amused.  Perhaps  a  future 
editor,  perhaps  even  we  ourselves,  may  one  day 
venture  in  this  direction,  but  not  yet. 

Edmund  Gosse. 

May,  igj7. 


XXIV 


CONTENTS 


MM 

PREFACE     v 

BORDER  BALLADS: 

LORD  SOULIS 3 

LORD  SCALES 15 

BURD  MARGARET 23 

THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH  30 

DURIESDYKE 40 

WESTLANDWELL 44 

EARL  ROBERT 48 

THE  KING'S  AE  SON 52 

LADY  MAISIE'S  BAIRN 54 

WEARIESWA' 56 

THE  EARL  OF  MAR'S  DAUGHTER      ....  67 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS: 

THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN          .            .            •  75 

THE  CUP  OF  GOD'S  WRATH 85 

ECHO 87 

DIES  IR^ 89 

autumn  rondel 92 

a  carol  for  charity 93 

a  song  for  margaret  midhurst        .        .        .  94 

love  and  sleep,  i 98 

love  and  sleep,  ii 99 

evening  by  the  sea ioo 

song  for  chastelard 102 

king  ban:  a  fragment 103 


XXV 


CONTENTS 


GIRLS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS— continued: 

THE  WHITE  MAID'S  WOOING 

LANDOR  AT  FLORENCE 

"AH,  FACE  AND  HANDS  AND  BODY  BEAUTIFUL 

GENTLE  SPRING 

CONSTANCE  AND  FREDERICK 

POPE  CELESTIN  AND  GIORDANO      . 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT  .... 

CHANSON  DE  FEVRLER 

CHANSON  D'AVRIL         .... 

THAW!  A  FRAGMENT   .... 

BALLAD  OF  THE  FAIR  HELMET-MAKER  TO  THE 

OF  joy:  FROM  VILLON  . 
RECOLLECTIONS  .... 

SAIREY  GAMP'S  ROUNDEL      . 
TO  A  LEEDS  POET  .... 

"HIGH  THOUGHT  AND  HALLOWED  LOVE,  BY 

MADE  ONE"  .... 

-&OLUS 

TO  JAMES  MCNEIL  WHISTLER 

THE  BALLADE  OF  TRUTHFUL  CHARLES  . 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1889 

THE  CENTENARY  OF  SHELLEY 

THE  CONCERT  OF  EUROPE  . 

MEMORIAL  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LECONTE  DE  LISLE 

MEMORIAL  VERSES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  KARL  BLIND 

ODETOMAZZINI 

PARODIES: 

disgust:  a  dramatic  monologue 

the  ghost  of  it 


FAITH 


PAGE 

108 
IIO 
III 
112 

113 
I20 
127 
131 
134 
136 

137 
139 
142 

143 
144 

145 
ISO 
151 
153 
155 
156 

iS7 
162 

167 


187 
193 


XXVI 


BORDER  BALLADS 


LORD  SOULIS 

LORD  SOULIS  is  a  keen  wizard, 

A  wizard  mickle  of  lear: 
Who  cometh  in  bond  of  Lord  Soulis, 

Thereof  he  hath  little  cheer. 

He  has  three  braw  castles  to  his  hand, 

That  wizard  mickle  of  age; 
The  first  of  Estness,  the  last  of  Westness, 

The  middle  of  Hermitage. 

He  has  three  fair  mays  into  his  hand, 

The  least  is  good  to  see; 
The  first  is  Annet,  the  second  is  Janet, 

The  third  is  Marjorie. 

The  firsten  o'  them  has  a  gowden  crown, 
The  neist  has  a  gowden  ring; 

The  third  has  sma'  gowd  her  about, 
She  has  a  sweeter  thing. 

The  firsten  o'  them  has  a  rose  her  on, 

The  neist  has  a  marigold; 
The  third  of  them  has  a  better  flower, 

The  best  that  springeth  ower  wold. 

3 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

The  kisses  that  are  her  mouth  within, 
There  is  no  man  knoweth  of  any  one; 

She  is  a  pure  maid  of  her  body, 
The  best  that  standeth  under  sun. 

And  Estness  was  a  bonny  castle, 

It  stood  upon  a  sea; 
The  green  for  Annet,  the  yellow  for  Janet, 

The  brown  for  Marjorie. 

And  Westness  was  a  bonny  castle, 

It  lay  upon  a  lea; 
Red  wine  for  Annet,  and  white  for  Janet, 

And  water  for  Marjorie. 

But  Hermitage  is  a  fair  castle, 

The  fairest  of  the  three; 
Saft  beds  for  Annet,  silk  sheets  for  Janet, 

Nane  sheets  for  Marjorie. 

He  made  them  a'  by  strong  cunning, 

That  wizard  great  of  hand; 
The  twain  to   fall  at  his  life's  ending, 

The  third  alway  to  stand. 

He  made  them  a'  by  hell's  cunning, 

That  wizard  full  of  ill; 
They  burnt  up  Estness  and  cast  down  Westness, 

But  Hermitage  standeth  still. 

4 


LORD  SOULIS 

There  be  twenty  lords  in  that  border, 
Full  twenty  strong  lords  and  three, 
They  have  sworn  an  oath  for  Lord  Soulis, 
Weel  wroken  of  him  to  be. 

They  have  set  a  meeting  at  Emmethaugh, 

And  upon  the  Lilienshaw, 
They  will  be  wroken  of  Lord  Soulis, 

His  body  to  hang  and  draw. 

They  have  broken  bread  between  them  a' 
At  Ottershawe  that's  ower  the  lea, 

They  wad  plunder  Estness  and  harry  Westness, 
But  Hermitage  they  let  be. 

They  watered  steeds  by  the  wan  Wellhaugh 

Under  the  sweet  leaves  green; 
Frae  the  Yethburn  head  to  Christenbury, 

To  ride  they  were  full  keen. 

When  they  were  come  to  the  Yethburn  spait, 

I  wot  their  knees  were  wet; 
When  they  were  come  to  the  Yethburn  head, 

There  was  no  porter  at  tha  yett. 

When  they  had  won  to  the  Bloody-bush, 

I  wot  their  sides  were  sair: 
Before  they  were  well  upon  that  border 

They  had  mickle  sorrow  and  care. 
"O  gin  we  were  at  the  sweet  Wellhaugh, 

Under  the  merry  leaves  fair!" 

5 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Before  they  were  well  on  the  other  side 
He  set  a  sair  cast  them  between — 

"O  gin  we  were  by  the  Emmetburn 
Under  the  little  leaves  green, 

Between  the  birks  and  the  Emmet  water, 
We  had  the  better  been." 

When  they  came  on  that  weary  border, 
He  sent  an  ill  thing  them  amang; 

"We  winna  ride  ower  to  Hermitage, 
The  wa's  they  are  too  Strang; 

But  we  will  ride  to  the  low  castles, 
Though  the  ways  be  ill  to  gang." 

Out  then  spak  Burd  Marjorie's  lover, 

He  was  a  fair  man  of  his  face; 
"Gin  I  may  be  wroken  of  Lord  Soulis 

I  have  sma'  care  of  my  place; 

"Gin  I  may  be  wroken  of  Lord  Soulis 

I  have  sma'  care  of  ony  thing; 
Of    the    wine    for    shedding,    the    sheets    for 

wedding, 

The  kirk  for  christening. 

"I  have  sma'  care  of  my  sad  body 

Upon  the  ground  to  gang; 
Gin  I  wist  where  I  might  be  wroken  of  him 

I  wad  give  it  to  him  Strang." 

o 


LORD  SOULIS 

Out  then  spak  may  Janet's  brother, 
He  was  a  stout  knight  and  a  keen; 

"He  has  sent  his  devils  us  amang 
To  work  us  trouble  and  teen. 

"Gin  I  wist  where  I  might  be  wroken  of  him, 

Betwixen  dark  and  day, 
I  wad  give  baith  my  soul  and  body 

To  hell  to  fetch  away." 

Out  then  spak  Burd  Annet's  father, 
He  was  a  good  man  full  of  age; 

"Ye'll  speir  at  Estness,  ye'll  speir  at  Westness, 
But  no  at  Hermitage." 

They  turned  their  horse-heads  round  about, 

Rode  low  down  by  the  sand; 
And  a'  the  way  they  went  upon, 

The  devil  went  at  their  hand. 

The  first  castle  they  came  to, 

It  stood  upon  a  sea; 
The  least  worth  chamber  in  a'  that  castle, 

It  was  a'  whalestooth  and  sandal-tree. 

"O  whatten  a  may  is  yonder  may, 

Sae  fair  to  see  upon?" 
"O  yonder  is  my  daughter  Annet, 

Out  of  my  ha's  was  gone." 

7 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

"Gin  ye'll  come  hither  to  me,  Annet, 

God's  grace  of  me  ye'se  have." 
"I  wadna  gang  out,  my  auld  fool  father, 

Gin  ye  were  graithed  in  your  grave." 

"Give  me  three  kisses,  my  daughter  Annet, 

Before  my  mouth  is  cold." 
"I  winna  come  forth  for  nae  man's  grey  beard, 

Till  my  bairn  be  a  sennight  old." 

He  turned  his  face  against  the  sea, 

His  heart  brak  right  atwain; 
"The  fire  of  hell  for  your  body,  Annet, 

Ere  ye  behold  me  again." 

"Pull  off  the  green,  and  the  goodly  green, 

Put  on  the  black,  the  black, 
For  my  father  is  ridden  to  Wearyland, 

I  doubt  he'll  never  win  back." 

They  turned  their  horse-heads  round  about, 

Rode  high  upon  a  hill; 
And  a'  the  gate  they  gaed  about, 

The  devil  them  garred  gang  ill. 

The  neister  castle  they  came  to, 

It  was  hard  upon  the  low  champaign; 

The  least  worth  bower  in  a'  that  castle, 
It  was  a'  white  siller  and  green  stane. 

8 


LORD  SOULIS 

"O  whatten  a  may  is  yonder  may 
That  is  sae  great  of  her  body?" 

"O  yonder  is  my  sister  Janet, 
Was  stolen  by  night  frae  me. 

"Gin  ye'll  come  hither  to  me,  Janet, 

God's  love  of  me  ye'se  hae." 
"I  wadna  gang  out  for  aye,  brither, 

Though  ye  were  dead  the  day." 

"O  ye'll  gang  down  to  me,  Janet, 
For  God's  sweet  mercy  and  mine; 

For  I  have  sought  ye  the  lang  lands  ower, 
These  eight  months  wearing  nine." 

"I  winna  gang  forth  for  nae  brither, 
Though  his  body  should  be  lorn ; 

I  winna  gang  forth  for  nae  man's  face, 
Till  Lord  Soulis'  bairn  be  born." 

He  turned  his  face  against  the  brigg, 
His  heart  brak  right  in  three; 

"The  sorrow  of  hell  for  you,  Janet, 
And  the  warld's  sorrow  for  me." 

"Take  down  the  red,  and  the  bonny  red, 

Set  up  the  black,  the  black: 
For  my  brother  is  ridden  to  Wearieswood, 

I  wot  he'll  never  win  back." 

9 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

They  turned  their  horse-heads  round  about, 

Rode  back  a  day  and  twain: 
And  a'  the  rivers  they  rode  upon 
The  devil  rode  at  their  rein. 


The  third  castle  they  came  to, 
It  was  the  castle  of  Hermitage; 

There  is  nae  man  may  break  the  sides  of  it, 
Though  the  stanes  therein  are  great  of  age. 

"O  whatten  a  may  is  yonder  may, 

That  looks  like  ony  flower?" 
"O  yon  is  my  very  love,  Marjorie, 

Was  borne  out  of  my  bower." 

The  bower  Lady  Marjorie  was  in, 
It  had  neither  white  cloths  nor  red, 

There  were  nae  rushes  to  the  bower  floors, 
And  nae  pillows  to  the  bed. 

uO  will  ye  come  down  but  a  very  little, 

For  God's  sake  or  for  me? 
Or  will  ye  kiss  me  a  very  little, 

But  six  poor  kisses  and  three?" 

She's  leaned  hersell  to  that  window, 

For  sorrow  she  couldna  stand; 
She's  bound  her  body  by  that  window, 

With  iron  at  her  hand. 

10 


LORD  SOULIS 

She's  sworn  by  tree  and  by  tree's  leaf, 

By  aits  and  rye  and  corn, 
"Gin  ye  hadna  come  the  night,"  she  says, 

"I  had  been  but  dead  the  morn." 

She's  kissed  him  under  the  bower-bar 

Nine  goodly  times  and  ten; 
And  forth  is  come  that  keen  wizard 

In  the  middest  of  his  men. 

And  forth  is  come  that  foul  wizard, 

God  give  him  a  curse  and  care! 
Says  "the  life  is  one  time  sweet  to  have 

And  the  death  is  three  times  sair." 

Forth  is  come  that  strong  wizard, 

God  give  him  a  heavy  day! 
Says  "ye  shall  have  joy  of  your  leman's  body 

When  April  cometh  after  May." 

Between  the  hill  and  the  wan  water 

In  fields  that  were  full  sweet, 
There  was  riding  and  running  together, 

And  many  a  man  gat  red-shod  feet. 

Between  the  wa's  and  the  Hermitage  water, 

In  ways  that  were  waxen  red 
There  was  cleaving  of  caps  and  shearing  of  jack, 

And  many  a  good  man  was  there  dead. 

ii 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

They  have  taken  that  strong  wizard 

To  bind  him  by  the  hands: 
The  links  of  aim  brast  off  his  body 

Like  splints  of  bursten  birken  wands. 

And  they  have  taken  that  keen  wizard 

To  bind  him  by  the  hause-bane; 
The  links  of  aim  brast  off  his  body 

As  blossom  that  is  burst  wi'  rain. 

And  they  have  taken  that  foul  wizard 

To  bind  him  by  the  feet: 
The  links  of  aim  brast  off  his  body 

As  berries  that  are  burst  with  heat. 

They  have  putten  fire  upon  his  flesh, 

For  nae  fire  wad  it  shrink: 
They  have  casten  his  body  in  the  wan  well-head, 

For  nae  water  wad  it  sink. 

Up  then  gat  the  fiend  Borolallie, 

Bade  them  "Give  ower  and  let  me: 

Between  warld's  fire  and  warld's  water 
He  gat  a  gift  of  me; 

Till  fire  come  out  of  wan  water, 
There's  nane  shall  gar  him  dee." 

"A  rede,  a  rede,  thou  foul  Borolallie, 

A  good  rede  out  of  hand; 
Shall  we  be  wroken  of  Lord  Soulis 

By  water  or  by  land? 

12 


LORD  SOULIS 

Or  shall  we  be  wroken  a  grea*  way  off, 
Or  even  whereas  we  stand?" 

And  up  it  spak  him,  foul  Borolallie, 

Between  the  tree  and  the  leaf  o'  the  tree; 

"Ye  maunna  be  wroken  of  Lord  Soulis 
By  land  neither  by  sea; 

Between  red  fire  and  wan  water 
Weel  wroken  ye  shall  be." 

And  up  it  spak  him,  foul  Borolallie, 
Between  Lord  Soulis  and  them  a' : 

"Ye  maunna  be  wroken  of  Lord  Soulis 
Betwixen  house  and  ha'; 

But  ye  maun  take  him  to  the  Ninestane  rigs 
And  take  his  life  awa'." 

They  have  taken  him  to  the  Ninestane  rigs 

His  foul  body  to  slay; 
Between  the  whins  and  the  whinstanes 

He  had  a  weary  way. 

They  have  taken  him  to  the  Ninestane  rigs 

His  foul  body  to  spill: 
Between  the  green  broom  and  the  yellow 

He  gat  a  bitter  ill. 

They  had  a  sair  cast  with  his  foul  body, 
There  was  nae  man  wist  what  to  do; 

"And  O  gin  his  body  were  weel  sodden, 
Weel  sodden  and  suppit  in  broo!" 

13 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

And  out  it  spak  him,  foul  Borolallie, 
Says  "whatten  a  coil's  this  coil? 

Ye'll  mak  a  fire  on  the  Ninestane  rigs, 
For  a  pot  thereon  to  5011." 

And  out  it  spak  him,  foul  Borolallie, 
Says  "whatten  a  din's  this  din? 

Ye'll  boil  his  body  within  the  brass, 
The  brass  to  boil  him  in." 

They  boiled  his  body  on  the  Ninestane  rigs 

That  wizard  mickle  of  lear; 
They  have  sodden  the  bones  of  his  body, 

To  be  their  better  cheer. 

They  buried  his  bones  on  the  Ninestane  rigs 
But  the  flesh  was  a'  clean  gane; 

There  was  great  joy  in  a'  that  border 
That  Lord  Soulis  was  well  slain. 


H 


LORD  SCALES 

Lord  Randal  lay  in  low  prison, 

He  looked  against  the  wa'; 
Gin  the  big  wa'  stanes  were  linen  bands, 

I'd  win  weel  through  them  a'. 

Lord  Randal  sat  by  a  low  lattice, 

He  looked  against  the  sea; 
Gin  the  foul  bed  straws  were  bonny  ships, 

I  wot  weel  wad  I  be. 

Lord  Randal  stood  by  a  Strang  window 

He  looked  against  his  hand; 
Gin  my  twa  wrist  chains  were  hempen  threads, 

I'd  win  weel  to  the  sand. 

Ye'll  take  the  rings  frae  my  fingers, 

The  silk  knot  frae  my  hair: 
Ye'll  gie  them  to  the  bonny  knight 

That  cries  on  me  sae  sair. 

Ye'll  take  the  gowd  bands  frae  my  back, 

The  covers  frae  my  bed: 
Ye'll  gie  them  to  the  Lord  Randal, 

To  put  beneath  his  head. 

15 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Hae  silk  into  your  hands,  Randal, 

And  gowd  twine  to  your  feet: 
And  braw  pillows  about  your  head 

To  keep  your  lang  hair  sweet. 

For  the  rain  rins  through  the  rank  bed  straw, 

And  the  wet  drips  in  the  wa' ; 
And  the  wee  red  wTorms  in  this  prison 

Wad  gar  your  gowd  hair  fa'. 

I  had  liefer  hae  my  ain  twa  hands, 

And  keep  my  body  cold; 
I  had  liefer  hae  my  own  twa  feet 

Than  twa  sic  shoon  of  gold. 

But  I  had  liefer  hae  my  lady's  mouth 
Than  the  silk  and  the  siller  bands; 

But  I  had  liefer  hae  her  sweet  body 
Than  a'  the  gowrd  in  land. 

I  had  liefer  kiss  my  lady  dead 
Than  a  live  woman  should  kiss  me: 

I  had  liefer  hae  my  lady  dead 
Than  a  fair  woman's  live  body. 

O  ye'se  hae  twine  o'  gowd  for  hemp, 

And  twine  o'  silk  for  thread; 
And  ye  shall  hae  her  fair  body, 

But  no'  her  body  dead. 

16 


LORD    SCALES 

She's  loosed  the  knot  upon  his  back, 

The  knot  upon  his  throat: 
She's  clad  him  with  a  suit  of  samite, 

And  red  silk  to  his  coat. 

She's  washed  him  well  wi'  sweet  waters, 

Put  spice  into  his  hair; 
She's  set  his  feet  in  a  narrow  side  chamber, 

Upon  a  sideway  stair. 

He's  ta'en  him  to  her,  Lady  Helen, 

Where  she  sat  by  a  bed, 
The  least  cloth  upon  her  body, 

It  was  of  the  noble  red. 

The  insides  of  her  bed  curtains, 
The  gold  was  gone  them  through; 

The  outsides  of  her  bed  curtains, 
They  were  full  merry  and  blue. 

The  silk  side  of  her  bed  pillows, 

It  was  of  the  summer  green; 
The  gold  was  bound  in  her  gold  hair, 

That  now  should  tell  them  twa  between. 

O  came  ye  for  my  lord's  land, 

O  for  my  lord's  fee; 
Or  came  ye  for  my  lord's  hate, 

Or  yet  for  the  love  of  me? 

17 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

O  gin  ye  come  like  a  land  robber, 

Full  soon  shall  ye  hang; 
But  gin  ye  come  like  a  woman's  lover, 

Full  sweetly  ye  shall  gang. 

O  it  was  never  for  no  hate, 

For  lord's  love  nor  for  fee: 
But  a'  the  weird  that  is  me  on 

It  was  a'  for  your  body. 

Gin  ye  set  nae  scorn  by  me,  Randal, 

To  dree  a  weird  and  a  pain, 
It's  no  Lord  Scales  my  auld  husband 

That  shall  depart  us  twain. 

Gin  this  be  sooth  of  you,  Randal, 
That  ye  have  good  will  to  play; 

It's  no  Lord  Scales  my  auld  husband 
Shall  be  better  of  us  twey. 

For  I  hae  reapers  to  the  land, 

And  sailors  to  the  sea; 
And  I  hae  maidens  to  my  bower 

That  wait  by  three  and  three; 
And  it's  no  Lord  Scales  my  auld  husband 

Shall  part  my  will  and  me. 

The  first  draw  rapes  upon  the  ship 
Between  the  sea  and  the  sea  sand; 

The  neist  they  lie  in  the  lang  corn, 
Wi'  the  reaphooks  to  their  hand; 

18 


LORD    SCALES 

And  between  the  lang  beds  and  the  wa', 
It's  there  the  maidens  stand. 

She's  had  him  to  her  bonnie  bed, 

She's  laid  it  warm  and  wide; 
He's  clipped  that  lady  by  the  middle  waist, 

And  by  the  middle  side. 

There  was  neither  light  nor  fire  them  by, 
And  they  twain  were  set  to  sleep, 

When  she's  turned  her  chin  to  the  pillow  side 
Made  her  a  space  to  weep. 

He  kissed  her  on  her  fair  twa  breasts, 

And  hard  upon  her  chin; 
He's  kissed  her  by  her  white  halse-bane 

The  little  salt  tears  fell  in. 

The  small  tears  fell  about  her  face 

Between  her  lips  and  his; 
From  side  to  side  of  her  gold  hair 

Her  face  was  full  sad  to  kiss. 

Lie  down,  lie  down  now,  Lady  Helen, 

Lie  still  into  my  hand; 
I  wadna  gie  ane  o'  the  pillow-beres 

For  ten  measures  of  land, 

Lie  still  into  mine  arms,  Helen, 

Betwixen  sheet  and  sheet: 
I  wadna  gie  ane  o'  the  cods  of  silk 

For  ten  measures  of  wheat. 

19 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Lie  still  into  mine  arms,  Helen, 

The  gold  side  of  the  bed; 
I  wadna  gie  ane  o'  thy  kaims  o'  lammer 

For  the  gold  on  the  queen's  head. 

It's  I  lie  saft  the  night,  Randal, 
With  my  head  against  your  face; 

But  gin  ye  had  slept  in  my  stables, 
It  had  been  the  sweeter  place. 

It's  I  lie  saft  the  night,  Randal, 

But  ye'll  lie  hard  the  morn; 
For  I  hear  a  mouse  rin  by  the  straw, 

And  a  bird  rin  by  the  corn. 

O  whatten  a  bird  is  that,  Helen, 

I  wad  fain  ken  what  it  ails? 
It's  an  auld  bird  and  an  ill,  Randal, 

Gin  it  be  no  Lord  Scales. 

Then  in  and  came  her  auld  husband, 

I  wot  a  fu'  lean  bird  was  he; 
It's  wake  ye  or  sleep  ye  now,  madame, 

Ye'se  gar  mak  room  for  me. 

O  are  ye  sick  the  night,  Lord  Scales, 

In  the  head  or  else  the  side? 
Or  are  ye  fain  to  sleep,  Lord  Scales, 

For  the  fear  ye  have  to  ride? 

20 


LORD    SCALES 

Randal's  taen  out  her  girdle  knife, 
He's  stricken  him  amang  his  een; 

It  was  mair  for  the  lady's  love 

Than  it  was  for  his  proper  teen. 

Out  came  a'  her  bower  maidens, 

In  their  night  smocks  and  night  rails; 

It  was  a'  for  sorrow  of  their  lady, 
It  was  naething  for  Lord  Scales. 

Out  ca/ne  a'  her  bower  maidens, 
In  their  sma'  coats  green  and  white; 

With  a  red  rose  wrought  for  the  left  breast, 
And  a  rose  wrought  for  the  right. 

Lord  Scales  had  on  a  goodly  coat, 
It  was  a'  bound  wi'  steel  thickly; 

Lord  Randal  had  but  a  little  shirt 
Between  the  wind  and  his  body. 

The  first  good  straik  Lord  Randal  strak, 
The  red  blood  sprang  upon  his  face; 

It  was  mair  for  his  lady's  love 
Than  it  was  for  her  lord's  grace. 

The  neist  good  straik  Lord  Randal  strak, 
The  bright  blood  sprang  upon  his  nails; 

It  was  mair  for  love  of  Lady  Helen 
Than  pity  of  Lord  Scales. 

21 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Lord  Scales  he  strak  a  fu'  straight  straik, 

But  Randal  strak  a  sair; 
Lord  Scales  had  a  little  joy  of  it, 

But  Lady  Helen  had  mair. 

Gar  set  my  ships  into  the  sea 
And  my  hooks  into  the  corn ; 

For  gin  I  have  lost  a  man  the  night, 
I'll  get  a  man  the  morn. 


22 


BURD  MARGARET 

"O  WHA  will  get  me  wheaten  bread 

And  wha  will  get  me  wine? 
And  wha  will  build  me  a  gold  cradle 

To  rock  this  child  of  mine? 

"There's  nane  will  drink  of  bitter  wine, 

Nor  eat  of  bitter  bread ; 
There's  nane  will  ca'  me  a  clean  maiden 

When  my  body  is  dead. 

"Nae  silk  maun  come  upon  my  feet, 

Nae  gowd  into  my  hair; 
My  brothers  smite  me  on  the  mouth, 

Where  nae  man  shall  kiss  mair." 

She  held  her  hands  in  the  wan  water 

Till  the  fingers  were  a'  red; 
Her  face  was  like  nae  fair  burd's  face 

That  has  her  maidenhead. 

She's  streekit  the  water  on  her  hair, 
She's  signed  it  owre  her  chin, 

She's  streekit  the  water  on  her  lips 
To  let  the  draps  gang  in. 

23 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

The  tears  ran  through  her  fair  sma'  mouth; 

The  white  bones  small  and  thin 
Were  waxen  sharper  in  her  lang  throat, 

And  in  her  wrist  and  chin. 

"Gin  my  mither  had  wist  o*  this 

When  she  was  left  wi'  me^ 
I  wot  these  arms  that  are  waxen  lean 

Had  ne'er  gaun  round  a  man's  body. 

"Gin  my  mither  had  dreamed  a  dream 

That  sic  a  kail  should  fall  on  me, 
She  had  bound  me  between  her  smock  and  her 

kirtle 

And  cast  me  ower  the  sea. 

"She  had  row'd  me  between  her  smock  and  her 

kirtle, 

Let  me  to  swim  or  sink ; 
And  I  had  drunken  o'  the  saut  water 

Instead  of  tears  to  drink. 

"The  bairn  that  is  waxen  me  within, 

It  is  waxen  a  pain  to  me; 
But  weel  lie  he  and  ever  weel 

That  made  my  bairn's  body. 

"The  white  that  was  in  my  twa  brows, 

I  wot  it  is  waxen  red ; 
But  weel  lie  he  and  ever  weel 

That  had  my  maidenhead. 

24 


BURD   MARGARET 

"O  weel  be  to  the  fair  red  roses 

Stood  high  against  my  chin; 
But  ill  be  to  the  good  green  leaves, 

For  they  were  half  the  sin. 

"O  weel  be  to  the  little  bird 

Sang  low  against  my  knee; 
But  ill  be  to  my  fause  nourice, 

She  had  sma'  reck  of  me. 

"O  weel  be  to  the  fair  red  roses 

Stood  high  against  my  face; 
But  ill  be  to  the  bonny  rowan, 

I  wish  it  never  grace." 

Burd  Margaret  lay  in  the  rank  water-grass 

By  the  fairest  ford  in  Tyne; 
And  between  the  grass  and  the  aspen  leaf, 

She  saw  their  armour  shine. 

The  first  of  them  had  fair  Milan  coats, 
The  second  had  but  pikes  and  jacks; 

The  third  had  coats  of  fair  scarlet, 
And  gold  across  their  caps. 

There  were  three  and  three  wi'  bits  of  steel, 
And  three  and  three  wF  siller  fine, 

And  three  and  three  wP  bits  of  gold, 
Was  red  as  fair  new  wine. 

25 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

"Whatten  men  be  these  that  rin,"  she  said, 
"Or  whatten  men  be  these  that  ride? 

Either  ye  be  thieves  f  rae  the  north  border, 
Or  men  that  look  a  bride." 

"Gin  I  be  rid  frae  the  north  border 
And  my  braw  bride  won  south, 

I'll  gar  her  clip  me  round  the  body 
And  kiss  me  on  the  mouth." 

"I  think  ye  be  nae  knight,"  she  said, 

"Nae  knight  that  wons  about; 
There  was  never  man  but  a  devil 

That  had  sae  lang  a  snout. 

"Gin  I  should  kiss  your  mouth,"  she  said. 

"I  wis  I  had  kissed  a  loon; 
I  think  ye  be  some  clouted  carter, 

Albeit  ye  wear  steel  shoon." 

"I  am  Lord  Hugh  of  Burnieshaw, 
Ye  may  weel  ken  the  face  o'  me ; 

And  I  wad  hae  back  the  bonnie  lad  bairn 
That  I  left  here  wi'  thee." 

"Gin  ye  be  Hughie  of  Burnieshaw, 
As  I  trow  a  better  may  have  been, 

Tell  me  what  words  I  said  to  you, 
When  the  rowans  were  green." 

26 


BURD  MARGARET 

"O  first  ye  pu'd  the  green  berry, 

And  syne  ye  pu'd  the  red ; 
And  the  first  word  that  ever  ye  spak 

Was  to  complain  your  maidenhead. 

"O  first  ye  pu'd  the  red  hollin, 

And  syne  ye  pu'd  the  green : 
And  the  first  word  ye  spak  to  me 

Ye  grat  fu'  sair  between." 

"Gin  ye  be  Hughie  of  Burnieshaw, 
As  I  think  weel  ye'll  never  be, 

Here  have  ye  back  your  bonny  lad  bairn, 
That  sair  has  troubled  me." 

She's  caught  her  hand  to  his  bridle-rein, 
Held  up  her  mouth  to  touch  his  chin; 

"Ye  garred  me  pu'  the  girdle  straight 
That  the  fair  knave  bairn  was  in." 

"What  needs  ye  flur  and  mock,  Margaret? 

What  needs  ye  scorn  at  me? 
Ye  never  gat  harm  of  your  fause  brothers, 

But  ye  gat  aye  the  mair  gude  o'  me." 

He's  put  his  hands  to  her  body, 
He's  laid  her  thwart  his  selle; 

And  ye  that  hae  gotten  a  bonny  sitter 
Gar  keep  the  neist  yoursell. 

27 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Aye  they  rode  weel,  and  aye  better, 
Until  the  moon  was  nigh  to  sheen; 

And  aye  the  tears  ran  in  her  breast, 
And  aye  in  the  gold  between. 

"O  whether  is  yon  a  cry  of  carlies, 

Or  men  that  cry  on  me?" 
"Bide  still,  bide  still  now,  Burd  Margaret, 

For  ye  hear  naething  but  the  sea." 

"O  whatten  is  yonder  noise,"  she  said, 
"That  I  hear  cry  on  us  behind?" 

"Haud  ye  by  my  sleeve  now,  Burd  Margaret, 
For  ye  hear  naething  but  the  wind." 

Aye  they  rode  weel,  and  aye  better, 
Until  the  moon  was  waxen  weak; 

And  aye  she  laid  her  face  to  his, 
And  her  tears  ran  by  his  cheek. 

Aye  when  he  kissed  her  bonny  een, 

I  wot  they  grat  fu'  sair; 
Aye  when  she  laid  her  head  to  his, 

I  wot  the  tears  ran  through  his  hair. 

Aye  they  rode  slow,  and  aye  slower, 
Till  the  moon's  time  was  a'  done; 

Between  the  road  and  the  saddle 
She  thought  to  bear  a  son. 

28 


BURD   MARGARET 

There  she  saw  her  first  brother, 

Stood  back  to  a  fair  tree; 
Said  "Grace  go  with  our  bonny  sister 

To  ride  in  sic  a  companie." 

Said  "Grace  go  with  our  bonnie  sister, 

To  wear  her  gown  aside; 
It  is  not  meet  for  a  good  woman 

To  set  her  girdle  wide." 

He's  stricken  the  first  across  the  neck, 

Shorn  clean  his  beard  and  hair; 
"How  haud  ye  weel,  my  fair  brother, 

Ye'se  get  of  me  nae  mair." 

He's  cloven  the  second  through  the  chin, 

The  third  upon  the  knee; 
"Now  haud  ye  weel,  my  three  brothers, 

Ye'se  get  nae  mair  of  me." 

They  set  her  in  a  fair  bride-bed, 

Full  glad  she  was  the  morn ; 
And  between  the  silk  and  the  braw  geld  claith, 

The  fair  knave  bairn  was  born. 


29 


THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH 

Lady  Helen  sat  in  Spindlestonheugh 

With  gold  across  her  hair; 
For  every  plait  was  on  her  head, 

I  wot  a  gold  piece  was  there. 

Lady  Helen  sat  in  Spindlestonheugh 

With  gold  across  her  head; 
The  green  gown  on  her  fair  body 

Was  woven  with  gold  thread. 

Lady  Helen  sat  in  Spindlestonheugh 

Wi'  silk  below  her  breast; 
The  best  pearl  in  the  queen's  girdle 

Was  lesser  than  her  least. 

Lady  Helen  sat  in  Spindlestonheugh 

With  silk  upon  her  feet; 
The  seams  were  sewn  wi'  cloth  of  scarlet 

To  keep  them  f  rae  the  weet. 

"O  wha  will  keep  the  keys  for  me 

Until  the  lord  be  hame? 
Or  wha  will  ca'  his  kye  for  me, 

To  see  gin  ony  be  lame?" 
30 


THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH 

She  hadna  bided  a  month  but  three 

With  silk  bands  to  her  side, 
When  word  is  come  to  Lady  Helen 

To  meet  her  father's  ae  new  bride. 

"Ye'll  bring  the  owsen  and  the  sheep  to  stall, 

Ye'll  bring  the  kye  to  stand; 
Ye'll  set  the  first  key  in  my  girdle, 

The  neist  key  at  my  hand." 

"But  gin  he  has  wedded  a  witch  woman 

To  work  sic  teen  on  me, 
I'll  come  nae  mair  to  Spindlestonheugh 

Till  green  grow  in  a  dry  tree." 

And  she's  done  on  her  braw  girdle, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon; 
And  she's  done  on  her  kaims  of  gold, 

Her  gold  gowTn  and  her  shoon. 

She's  tied  her  hair  in  three  witch  knots, 

I  wot,  abune  her  bonny  een; 
And  for  her  hair  and  her  body, 

I  wot  she  might  have  been  a  queen. 

"I  wish  the  sickle  was  in  the  rye, 
And  the  rye  was  ower  my  head ; 

And  aye  the  next  rose  I  shall  gather, 
I  wish  the  white  may  be  the  red." 
3i 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

She's  tane  the  keys  intil  her  hands 
Between  the  red  sun  and  the  moon; 

The  rain  ran  down  upon  the  grass, 
And  stained  in  her  silk  shoon. 

She's  tane  the  keys  to  her  girdle-tie 
Between  the  warm  sun  and  the  weet; 

The  rain  that  was  between  the  grass  and  rye, 
Ran  down  upon  her  feet. 

"O  whatten  a  burd  is  yonder  burd 

That  shines  about  her  head?" 
"It  is  but  Helen  my  ae  daughter 

Has  clad  hersell  wi'  red." 


"O  where  gat  she  thae  stones  of  price, 
The  warst  might  serve  a  queen?" 

"It  is  but  for  the  summer  season 
She's  clad  hersell  wi'  green." 

Lady  Helen  knelt  upon  her  knees, 
She  knelt  upon  her  yellow  hair; 

"Hae  back  your  keys,  my  dear  father, 
God  give  you  weel  to  fare." 

Lady  Helen  knelt  into  the  dust, 

She  knelt  upon  the  roadway  stane; 

"And  God  you  keep,  madame,  my  mither, 
As  I  shall  be  your  ain." 
32 


THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH 

Out  then  spak  the  new-come  bride, 
I  wot  she  spak  wi'  pain  and  care; 

"O  some  hae  gold  to  weave,  Helen, 
And  some  hae  gold  to  wear." 

Out  then  spak  the  witch-mother, 
I  wot  she  spak  fu'  little  worth; 

"Look  where  my  saddle  sits,  Helen, 
Ye'll  stand  against  the  saddle-girth." 

She's  tane  the  red  kaims  frae  her  hair, 

The  red  shoon  frae  her  feet; 
She's  set  her  face  to  the  saddle-stirrup, 

That  nane  should  hear  her  greet. 

And  aye  she  ran,  and  weel  she  ran 

Till  her  sides  were  waxen  sair; 
And  the  sun  that  was  upon  the  ways 

Had  burnt  her  through  her  hair. 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile  but  three 

When  she  was  fain  to  bide ; 
For  the  blood  was  come  upon  her  feet 

And  the  pain  upon  her  side. 

And  whiles  she  ran,  and  whiles  she  grat, 

In  the  warm  sun  and  the  cold, 
Till  they  came  to  the  bonny  castle 

Was  bigged  upon  with  gold. 

33 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

"O  see  ye  not  thae  towers,  Helen, 

Where  ye  gat  meat  and  wine? 
It's  I  maun  ligg  in  the  braw  bride-chamber, 

And  ye  maun  ligg  wi'  swine. 

"O  see  ye  not  thae  halls,  Helen, 

Where  ye  gat  silk  to  wear? 
It's  I  shall  hae  the  gold  gowns  on, 

When  your  body  is  bare." 

"O  ye'll  sit  in  the  braw  guest-chamber, 

And  ye'll  drink  white  and  red; 
But  ye'll  gar  them  gie  me  the  washing  water, 

The  meats  and  the  broken  bread?" 


"Ye'll  get  nae  chine  o'  the  broken  loaves, 
The  white  bread  wi'  the  brown; 

Ye'll  drink  of  the  rain  and  the  puddle  water 
My  maids  shall  cast  ye  down." 

"O  ye'll  sit  in  the  braw  guest-chamber 
Wi'  the  gowd  braids  on  your  hair; 

But  ye'll  gie  me  a  poor  coat  and  a  smock 
For  my  body  to  wear? 

"O  I  shall  ligg  i'  the  trodden  straw, 

And  ye  in  a  gold  bride-bed; 
But  ye'll  gie  me  a  claith  to  hap  my  feet, 

And  a  claith  to  hap  my  head?" 

34 


THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH 

"Ye'll  get  no  claith  to  hap  you  in, 

Ye'll  get  no  coats  of  me; 
Ye'll  get  nae  mair  but  a  riven  smock 

To  wear  on  your  body." 

And  she's  ate  of  the  foul  swine's  meat 

With  her  saft  lips  and  fine; 
She's  put  her  mouth  to  the  rank  water, 

Was  poured  amang  the  swine. 

Never  ae  word  spak  Lady  Helen, 

Never  ae  word  but  twa; 
"O  gin  my  mither  had  hands  to  help, 

I  wad  be  weel  holpen  awa'." 

Never  ae  word  spak  Lady  Helen, 

Never  ae  word  but  three ; 
"O  gin  my  mither  had  lips  to  kiss, 

Sae  weel  she  wad  kiss  me! 

"She  wad  kiss  me  on  my  ravelled  hair, 

The  foul  cheek  and  the  chin; 
She  wad  kiss  me  on  the  weary  mouth, 

Where  the  rank  water  gaed  in." 

Out  then  came  the  witch  mother: 

"What  ails  ye  now  to  greet? 
Here's  grass  to  hap  ye  dry,  Helen, 

And  straw  to  hap  ye  sweet." 
35 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

The  rain  fell  frae  her  feet  and  hands, 

Frae  her  lang  hair  and  fine: 
"What  ails  ye  at  the  baked  meats,  Helen, 

The  brown  wheat  bread  and  the  wine?" 

She's  turned  her  by  the  waist  about, 

She's  turned  her  by  the  knee; 
She's  witched  her  body  to  a  laidley  worm, 

A  laidley  worm  to  be. 

"The  red  fruit  shall  grow  in  green  river  water, 

And  green  grass  in  the  wet  sea, 
Ere  ye  shall  come  to  a  fair  woman, 

A  fair  woman  to  be." 

And  she's  garr'd  bigg  her  seven  swine-brows, 
She's  made  them  wide  and  lang; 

She's  tane  the  kail  and  the  meal  pocks 
That  the  foul  worm  might  feed  amang. 

Aye  she  roupit  and  aye  she  croupit 

And  aye  she  soupit  the  mair; 
And  for  the  breath  of  her  laidley  mouth 

The  sweet  land  stank  fu'  sair. 


Word  is  come  to  Lady  Helen's  brother, 
In  God's  town  where  he  lay, 

His  father  had  gatten  a  braw  new  bride 
And  his  sister  was  stown  away. 

36 


THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH 

Word  is  come  to  Lord  Richard, 

Where  he  was  in  God's  land, 
There  were  nine  men  out  of  the  north 

Would  fain  be  to  his  hand. 

"Whatten  word  is  this,  ye  good  sailors, 

This  word  ye  hae  to  me? 
Gin  it  be  a  word  of  the  good  land, 

A  dear  word  it  maun  be." 

"For  nine  mile  out  of  Spindlestonheugh 
A  laidley  worm  to  see; 
It  has  the  tongue  of  a  maid-woman, 
And  a  worm's  foul  body. 

"For  nine  mile  out  of  Spindlestonheugh 
Of  grass  and  rye  there  is  nae  routh; 

There  is  sma'  routh  of  the  good  red  corn, 
For  the  breath  of  her  rank  mouth." 

"Whatten  word  is  this,  ye  carlish  caitives? 

For  this  word  ye  hae  to  me, 
There  shall  never  meat  come  in  my  mouth 

Till  I  be  put  to  sea." 

And  he's  garr'd  bigg  him  a  fu'  fair  ship, 
He's  biggit  it  a'  of  the  rowan  tree; 

It  was  neither  hasped  wi'  gowd  nor  aim, 
To  haud  it  frae  the  sea. 

37 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

It  was  neither  hasped  wi'  gowd  nor  aim, 

Nor  yet  wi'  siller  wan; 
But  a'  the  wood  it  was  biggit  wi' 

Was  of  the  white  rowan. 

And  they  sailed  lang,  and  they  sailed  sair, 
And  they  drave  ower  to  south ; 

And  a  wind  was  in  the  ship's  side, 
And  a  wind  in  the  ship's  mouth. 

And  when  he  came  by  Spindlestonheugh 
He's  tane  the  vervein  in  his  hand; 

"Now  God  have  heed  of  the  fair  ship, 
For  we  must  row  to  land." 

"Have  pity  of  us,  O  Lord  Richard, 
For  we  dare  no  further  gang." 

"Gin  I  may  come  by  a  goodly  gallows, 
The  best  of  ye  a'  shall  hang." 

But  when  he  saw  the  seven  swine-trows, 
He  weened  a  sair  thing  to  have  seen; 

And  when  he  saw  the  laidley  worm, 
The  tears  brast  ower  in  his  een. 

"O  gin  ye'll  kiss  my  laidley  mouth 

For  the  love  of  God's  body, 
I  winna  do  ye  scaith,  brother, 

Though  I  be  a  foul  thing  to  see." 

38 


THE  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTONHEUGH 

He's  put  his  mouth  to  her  laidley  mouth, 
He's  kissed  her  once  and  twice; 

"I  had  liever  lose  God's  dear  body 
Than  kiss  this  foul  worm  thrice." 

He's  put  his  mouth  to  her  laidley  mouth, 

He's  kissed  her  kisses  three; 
The  flesh  fell  f rae  her  laidley  mouth 

And  frae  her  rank  body; 
And  it  was  but  his  sister  Helen 

Stood  at  Lord  Richard's  knee. 

She  was  clad  all  in  the  fair  red  samite, 

Her  mouth  was  red  and  fair; 
There  was  nae  burd  in  the  good  land 

That  had  such  yellow  hair. 

He's  tane  him  to  the  witch  mother 

That  sat  by  her  bairn's  bed; 
The  gold  was  gone  in  her  grey  hair, 

Her  face  was  heavy  and  red. 

"O  wae  be  wi'  you,  ye  ill  woman, 
And  the  young  bairn  at  your  knee; 

There's  never  a  bairn  shall  die  abed 
That  comes  of  your  body." 

"Now  God  you  save,  my  fair  brother, 
For  his  dear  body  that  was  dead; 

Now  God  you  save  and  maiden  Mary, 
That  kept  me  of  her  maidenhead." 
39 


DURIESDYKE 

The  rain  rains  sair  on  Duriesdyke, 

Both  the  winter  through  and  the  spring; 

And  she  that  will  gang  to  get  broom  thereby 
She  shall  get  an  ill  thing. 

The  rain  rains  sair  on  Duriesdyke, 
Both  the  winter  and  the  summer  day; 

And  he  that  will  steek  his  sheep  thereby 
He  shall  go  sadly  away. 

"Between  Crossmuir  and  Duriesdyke 

The  fieldhead  is  full  green; 
The  shaws  are  thick  in  the  fair  summer, 

And  three  well-heads  between. 

"Flower  of  broom  is  a  fair  flower, 

And  heather  is  good  to  play." 
O  she  went  merry  to  Duriesdyke, 

But  she  came  heavy  away. 

"It's  I  have  served  you,  Burd  Maisry, 
These  three  months  through  and  mair; 

And  the  little  ae  kiss  I  gat  of  you, 
It  pains  me  aye  and  sair. 

4° 


DURIESDYKE 

"This  is  the  time  of  heather-blowing, 
And  that  was  syne  in  the  spring; 

And  the  little  ae  leaf  comes  aye  to  red, 
And  the  corn  to  harvesting." 

The  first  kiss  there  twa  mouths  had, 

Sae  fain  she  was  to  greet; 
The  neist  kiss  their  twa  mouths  had, 

I  wot  she  laughed  fu}  sweet. 

"Cover  my  head  with  a  silken  hood, 

My  feet  with  a  yellow  claith; 
For  to  stain  my  body  wi'  the  dyke-water, 

God  wot  I  were  fu'  laith." 

He's  happit  her  head  about  wi'  silk, 

Her  feet  with  a  gowden  claith; 
The  red  sendal  that  was  of  price, 

He's  laid  between  them  baith. 

The  grass  was  low  by  Duriesdyke, 

The  high  heather  was  red; 
And  between  the  grass  and  the  high  heather, 

He's  tane  her  maidenhead. 

They  did  not  kiss  in  a  noble  house, 

Nor  yet  in  a  lordly  bed; 
But  their  mouths  kissed  in  the  high  heather, 

Between  the  green  side  and  the  red. 

4i 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

"I  have  three  sailing  ships,  Maisry, 

For  red  wheat  and  for  wine; 
The  maintopmast  is  a  bonny  mast, 

Three  furlongs  off  to  shine. 

"The  foremast  shines  like  new  lammer, 

The  mizzenmast  like  steel: 
Gin  ye  wad  sail  wi'  me,  Maisry, 

The  warst  should  carry  ye  weel." 

"Gin  I  should  sail  wi'  you,  Lord  John, 

Out  under  the  rocks  red, 
It's  wha  wad  be  my  mither's  bower-maiden 

To  hap  saft  her  feet  in  bed? 

"Gin  I  should  sail  wi'  you,  Lord  John, 

Out  under  the  rocks  white, 
There's  nane  wad  do  her  a  very  little  ease 

To  hap  her  left  and  right." 

It  fell  upon  the  midwinter, 

She  gat  mickle  scaith  and  blame; 

She's  bowed  hersell  by  the  white  water 
To  see  his  ships  come  hame. 

She's  leaned  hersell  against  the  wind, 
To  see  upon  the  middle  tide; 

The  faem  was  fallen  in  the  running  wind, 
The  wind  was  fallen  in  the  waves  wide. 

42 


DURIESDYKE 

"There's  nae  moon  by  the  white  water 
To  do  me  ony  good  the  day; 

And  but  this  wind  a  little  slacken, 
They  shall  have  a  sair  seaway. 

"O  stir  not  for  this  nied,  baby, 

O  stir  not  at  my  side; 
Ye'll  have  the  better  birth,  baby, 

Gin  ye  wad  but  a  little  abide." 


43 


WESTLAND  WELL 

Ye  maun  mak'  me  a  scarlet  gown,  Lord  John, 

A  scarlet  gown  to  the  knee; 
It  maun  be  sewn  wi'  a  gowd  needle, 

To  mak'  fit  wear  to  me. 

It  maun  be  sewn  wi'  a  gowd  needle, 

And  spun  o'  silk  for  thread; 
And  ye  maun  gie  me  a  band  of  silk, 

To  tie  upon  my  head. 
And  ye  maun  gie  me  a  sheet  of  silk 

To  put  into  my  bed. 

O  wha  was't  made  ye  proud,  Janet, 

Or  ever  ye  were  born? 
There's  nae  gowd  in  the  land,  Janet, 

Is  redder  than  the  corn. 

O  wha  was't  taught  you  words,  Janet, 

Or  wha  was't  learned  you  pride? 
There's  mony  a  better  face  than  yours 

Would  fain  lie  neist  my  side. 

44 


WESTLAND  WELL 

0  haud  your  tongue,  Lord  John  o'  the  Mains, 
I  doubt  ye  hae  drunken  wine; 

There  is  not  a  maid  that  vvons  in  heaven 
Wi'  sic  a  face  as  mine. 

Gin  I  were  set  in  the  high  heaven, 
And  God's  mother  were  set  below, 

1  wad  be  queen  of  the  high  heaven, 
And  she  wad  be  let  go. 

When  she  cam  in  Lord  John's  bower, 

She  never  had  kissed  man: 
When  she  cam  frae  Lord  John's  bower 

She  was  but  his  leman. 

0  ye'll  gar  make  me  a  bonny  bed, 
Ye'll  make  it  warm  and  sweet, 

Ye'll  set  a  pillow  to  my  head,  mither, 
And  a  pillow  to  my  feet. 

It  fell  about  the  middle  May  time 

When  the  apple  flowers  wax  red, 
Her  mither  began  to  chide  with  her 

She  kept  sae  lang  abed. 

1  canna  stand  to  walk,  mither, 
But  I'm  just  like  to  die, 

And  wae  be  to  your  bonny  bloodhound 
That  bit  me  by  the  knee. 

45 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Yestreen  my  maids  took  off  the  sheet 

To  wash  i'  the  Westland  Well, 
And  lest  the  bonny  web  suld  ravel, 

I  set  a  hand  mysel. 

We  washed  the  blue  thread  and  the  brown, 
The  white  thread  and  the  black; 

And  sae  cam  ben  your  fause  bloodhound, 
And  bit  me  in  the  back. 

Sae  sair  it  rent  and  bit,  mither, 

Sae  sair  it  bit  and  clang, 
And  ever  I  hope  in  God,  mither, 

Ye'll  gar  that  bloodhound  hang. 

What's  this  o't  now,  maiden  Janet? 

What's  this  o't  now?  quo'  she; 
There's  nae  such  hound  that  bites  women, 

There's  nae  such  langs  to  me. 

Tell  me  now,  Janet,  she  says, 

And  I  winna  gar  ye  lee, 
Is  this  a  hound's  tooth  or  a  child's  shaping 

That  mars  your  straight  body? 

O  where  your  cheek  was  red,  Janet, 

Your  cheek  is  sick  and  wan; 
And  where  your  back  was  right  and  flat, 

It  bows  like  a  loaden  man. 

46 


WESTLAND  WELL 

0  where  your  throat  was  round,  Janet, 
It's  lean  and  loose  by  this; 

And  where  your  lip  was  sweet,  Janet, 
It's  grown  too  thin  to  kiss. 

The  blood  sprang  in  her  cheek,  fair  Janet, 
The  blood  sprang  in  her  chin ; 

1  doubt  there's  ane  wad  kiss  me,  mither, 
Though  I  be  sick  and  thin. 

About  the  time  of  moon-rising 

They  set  her  saft  in  bed, 
About  the  time  of  star-setting 

They  streekit  her  for  dead. 

O  ill  be  in  your  meat,  Lord  John, 

And  ill  be  in  your  wine; 
Gin  the  bairn  be  none  of  your  getting, 

I'm  sure  it's  none  of  mine. 

Ill  be  in  your  bed,  Lord  John, 

And  ill  be  in  your  way, 
Gin  ye  had  been  hangit  a  year  agone, 

I  had  been  the  merrier  May. 


47 


EARL  ROBERT 

O  SOME  ride  east  and  some  ride  north, 
And  some  ride  west  and  south; 

But  the  ae  best  gate  that  ever  I  rade 
Was  2l   for  her  red  mouth. 

O  some  wear  blue  and  bonny  scarlet, 
And  some  wear  green  and  red; 

And  it's  a'  for  love  of  her  yellow  hair 
I'll  wear  but  golden  thread. 

Gin  this  be  Annie  of  Waterswa' 

That  gars  ye  speak  sae  hie, 
There's  nae  man  of  your  name,  Earl  Robert, 

Shall  get  her  fair  body. 

0  then  he  came  by  Waterswa', 
The  rain  was  sair  and  Strang; 

Fair  Annie  sat  in  a  bower-window, 
And  her  gold  hair  was  grown  lang. 

Gin  I  might  swim  to  ye,  Robert, 

I  wad  never  spare  for  gloves  or  gown; 

1  wad  never  spare  for  the  cold  water, 
But  I  have  sore  fear  to  drown. 

48 


EARL  ROBERT 

Now  God  thee  hold,  thou  fair  Annie, 

The  wa's  are  hard  to  leap; 
The  water  is  ill  to  swim,  Annie, 

And  the  brigg  is  ill  to  keep. 

Gin  I  should  open  to  ye,  Robert, 

I  wis  it  were  open  shame: 
It  were  great  pity  of  me,  Robert, 

For  I  gang  but  sick  and  lame. 

0  twice  I  cuttit  the  silk  string  through 
That  was  upon  my  back; 

And  twice  I  cuttit  the  gown  away 
That  wadn'a  haud  me  slack. 

It's  ill  wi'  me  the  night,  Robert, 

It's  weel  wi'  my  leman; 
For  the  wine  that  comes  in  my  fingers, 

I  spill  it  on  my  han' ; 
And  the  meat  that's  in  my  very  mouth, 

I  wot  it  feeds  a  man. 

Gin  I  may  win  to  ye,  Annie, 
I  think  ye'll  keep  me  weel. 

1  were  the  liefer  of  you,  Robert, 
But  for  the  doors  of  shut  steel.1 

1  In  the  Manuscript  this  stanza  has  been  lightly  struck 
through  with  a  pen.  Probably  the  author  intended  to  delete 
it.— [Eds.] 

49 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Gin  I  may  win  to  ye,  Annie, 

The  tane  o'  us  should  weel  fare. 

There's  three  men  keep  the  ways,  Robert, 
Between  the  gate  and  the  water-stair. 

I  wot  the  night  there's  deep  water, 

Runs  red  upon  the  brim: 
It's  full  between  the  wa's,  Annie, 

This  were  but  ill  to  swim. 

There's  rain  the  night  in  Carrilees, 

I  wot  the  rain  is  rank; 
There  be  twa  fathoms  of  Strang  water 

Between  it  bank  and  bank. 

But  he's  rid  out  through  Carrilees'  brow, 

I  wot,  baith  wet  and  wan; 
Annie  lay  in  her  chamber-window, 

She  was  a  glad  woman. 

Between  the  gate  and  the  water-stair 
He  made  him  room  to  stand; 

The  wet  ran  f  rae  his  knees  and  feet, 
It  ran  upon  his  hand. 

And  he's  won  through  to  her  chamber, 
He's  kissed  her  neist  the  chin: 

"O  gin  ye'll  keep  me  out,  Annie, 
Is  there  ony  will  take  me  in?" 

50 


EARL  ROBERT 

Up  then  gat  her  auld  father, 

Between  the  wall  and  her  bed  feet; 

"Is  there  ony  breath  in  your  lips,  Earl  Robert, 
To  gar  a  dead  mouth  smell  sweet?" 

He's  tane  her  by  the  gold  girdle, 

He's  garr'd  it  break  atwain; 
There's  nae  room  here  for  Earl  Robert, 

The  ways  are  sae  fou'  o'  rain. 

He's  tane  a  keen  sword  in  his  hand, 

He's  set  him  to  the  wa'; 
And  the  very  heart's  blood  of  Earl  Robert, 

I  wot  he's  garr'd  it  fa'. 

Out  then  spak  she,  fair  Annie, 

At  the  bed's  foot  where  she  lay; 
"There's  a  time  for  you  the  night,  father, 

And  a  time  for  us  the  day. 

"O  gin  ye  dig  na  deep,  father, 

I  wot  ye  maun  dig  wide ; 
And  set  my  lord  to  the  nether  hand, 

And  my  bairn  to  the  green  side. 

"Ye'll  set  my  head  to  his  foot,  father, 

That  he  be  neist  the  sun; 
For  a'  that  was  between  us  twa, 

I  think  it's  a'  weel  done." 

5i 


THE  KING'S  AE  SON 

Quo'  the  bracken-bush  to  the  wan  well-head, 
"O  whatten  a  man  is  this  man  dead?" 

"O  this  is  the  King's  ae  son,"  quo'  she, 
"That  lies  here  dead  upon  my  knee." 

"What  will  ye  do  wi'  the  King's  ae  son?" 
"The  little  fishes  shall  feed  him  on." 

"What  will  ye  strew  for  his  body's  bed?" 
"Green  stanes  aneath  his  head," 

"What  will  ye  gie  for  his  body's  grace?" 
"Green  leaves  abune  his  face." 

"What  will  ye  do  wi'  the  rings  on  his  hand?" 
"Hide  them  ower  wi'  stane  and  sand." 

"What  will  ye  do  wi'  the  gowd  in  his  hair?" 
"Hide  it  ower  wi'  rushes  fair." 

"What  shall  he  have  when  the  hill-winds  blow?" 
"Cauld  rain  and  routh  of  snow." 

"What  shall  he  get  when  the  birds  fly  in?" 
"Death  for  sorrow,  and  sorrow  for  sin." 

52 


THE  KING'S  AE  SON 

"What  shall  come  to  his  father,  the  King?" 
"Long  life  and  a  heavy  thing." 

"What  shall  come  to  his  mother,  the  Queen?" 
"Grey  hairs  and  a  bitter  teen." 

"What  to  his  leman,  that  garr'd  him  be  slain?" 
"Hell's  pit  and  hell's  pain." 


S3 


LADY  MAISIE'S  BAIRN 

"GlN  ye  winna  cease  for  the  pity  of  him, 

0  cease  for  the  pity  of  me; 

There  was  never  bairn  born  of  a  woman 
Between  the  sea-wind  and  the  sea, 

There  was  never  bairn  born  of  a  woman 
That  was  born  so  bitterly." 

The  ship  drove  hard  upon  the  wind, 

1  wot  it  drove  full  mightily; 

But  the  fair  gold  sides  upon  the  ship 
They  were  bursten  with  the  sea. 

"O  I  am  sae  fain  for  you,  Lord  John, 

Gin  ye  be  no  sae  fain; 
How  shall  I  bear  wi'  my  body, 

It  is  sae  full  of  pain? 

"O  I  am  sae  fain  of  your  body, 

Ye  are  no  sae  fain  of  me;" 
But  the  sails  are  riven  wi'  the  wind 

And  the  sides  are  full  of  sea. 

O  when  she  saw  the  sails  riven, 
The  sair  pain  bowed  her  back; 

But  when  she  saw  the  sides  bursten, 
I  wot  her  very  heart  brak. 

54 


LADY  MAISIE'S  BAIRN 

The  wind  waxed  in  the  sea  between, 
The  rain  waxed  in  the  land; 

Lord  John  was  happed  wi'  saut  sea-faem, 
Lady  Maisie  wi'  sea-sand; 

And  the  little  bairn  between  them  twa 
That  was  to  her  right  hand. 

The  rain  rains  sair  on  Duriesdyke 

To  the  land  side  and  the  sea ; 
There  was  never  bairn  born  of  a  woman 

That  was  born  mair  bitterly. 


55 


WEARIESWA' 

THE  wind  wears  ower  the  Wearieswa' 

To  the  right  and  the  left  hand; 
The  wind  wears  ower  by  the  Wearieswa' 

And  under  by  the  sea-sand. 

Every  bolt  in  Wearieswa' 

Wi'  siller  was  it  sparred; 
Every  gate  in  Wearieswa' 

Wi'  red  gold  was  it  barred. 

Every  window  in  Wearieswa' 

It  was  hasped  in  nickal  keen; 
Every  bower  in  Wearieswa' 

It  was  set  wi'  rushes  clean. 

There  wonneth  a  woman  in  the  Wearieswa', 

A  strong  spell  is  her  upon; 
He  that  shall  kiss  her  mouth  for  love 

Of  his  life  he  is  fordone. 

There  is  nae  man  made  of  a  woman 

As  the  grass  grows  and  the  corn, 
But  gin  he  have  kissed  that  lady's  mouth 

Of  his  lips  he  is  forlorn. 

56 


WEARIESWA' 

Lord  Robert  is  ridden  to  the  Wearieswa' 
Between  the  low  ling  and  the  heather  hie; 

A  wind  was  comen  out  of  Wearieswa* 
Between  the  hielands  and  the  sea. 

O  whatten  a  wind  is  this  weary  wind 

A  weary  wind  to  me? 
It's  neither  a  scart  o'  the  mill-water, 

Nor  yet  a  wind  o'  the  sea. 

Lady  Janet  looked  ower  by  a  little  window, 

She  was  fain  of  any  man ; 
For  the  lack  of  love  that  was  her  in 

All  her  body  was  wan. 

She's  laid  her  chin  out  ower  the  wa'  stanes, 

All  her  body  was  weak; 
The  tears  fell  over  in  her  face  wan, 

Betwixen  mouth  and  cheek. 

Gin  I  kissed  that  lady  on  her  lips 

The  better  man  would  I  be; 
Gin  I  kissed  that  lady  on  her  hands  twain 

'Twere  pain  of  my  body. 

O  gin  ye  should  kiss  my  weary  hands 

Your  teen  would  be  fu'  sair; 
And  gin  ye  should  kiss  my  heavy  mouth  . 

Your  teen  wad  be  mickle  mair. 

57 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

But  ye'll  gae  down  to  yon  wan  water-side, 
Gar  make  a  ship  of  ashen  tree; 

And  ye  maun  sail  by  seven  ways 
Between  the  f  aem  and  the  green  sea. 

The  first  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  itWearieswyte; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

He  shall  have  little  delight. 

The  neist  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  it  Wearieswan ; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

He  is  nae  sicker  man. 

The  neist  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  it  Weariesway; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

He  wins  the  better  away. 

The  neist  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  it  Wearieswoe; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

He  shall  neither  stand  nor  go. 

The  neist  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  it  Weariesween ; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

Of  his  body  he  shall  have  teen. 

58 


WEARIESWA' 

The  neist  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  it  Weariesyett; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

An  ill  wonning  he  shall  get. 

The  last  water  ye'll  sail  upon 

Men  call  it  Wearieshead; 
Whoso  cometh  to  that  water 

It  were  better  for  him  to  be  dead. 

And  gin  the  sair  sea  scathe  you  not 

Nor  the  sea-worms  in  the  sea, 
This  weary  weird  that  is  me  upon 

Ye  shall  take  off  from  me. 

And  gin  the  water  win  you  not  upon 
Ye  shall  have  good  harbouring, 

When  ye  come  back  to  Wearieswa', 
About  the  fair  birk  flowering. 

And  ye  maun  be  yoursell  alane 

And  I  with  a'  my  men, 
And  ye  maun  stand  low  down  them  amang 

To  see  if  I  shall  you  ken. 

Gin  the  wan  water  win  me  not  upon 
Between  the  sea-banks  and  the  sea, 

Then  I'll  come  back  for  your  sake,  Janet, — 
A  token  I'll  hae  wi'  me. 

59 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

But  how  shall  ye  be  seen,  Hynd  Robert, 

0  how  shall  ye  be  known, 
Amang  so  mony  gentlemen 

That  wear  the  gold  alone? 

O  where  they  wear  the  goodly  bright  gold 

1  shall  wear  yellow  and  black; 

And  a  little  green  hood  behind  my  hair 
To  hang  down  at  my  back. 

But  how  shall  ye  be  kent,  Janet, 

Or  how  shall  ye  be  seen, 
Amang  so  many  goodly  ladies 

That  ye  maun  gang  between? 

O  where  they  wear  a  ring,  Robert, 

I  shall  wear  two  and  three, 
And  a  girdle  with  a  fair  white  stane, 

And  by  that  ye  shall  ken  me. 

And  where  they  wear  but  yellow  lammer, 

I  shall  wear  siller  sheen; 
And  where  they  gang  like  a  queen's  handmaids, 

I  shall  gang  like  a  queen. 

A  kell  o'  gowd  abune  my  head 

And  a  band  abune  my  eebree, 
And  in  every  o'  them  a  jewel  stone 

My  witness  for  to  be; 

60 


WEARIESWA' 

And  half  my  kirtle  of  red  sendal 

To  hang  down  at  my  knee; 
And  half  my  kirtle  of  brown  sendal 

That  shall  be  wrought  to  me. 
And  the  shoon  on  my  feet  of  yellow  samite 

And  by  that  ye  shall  me  see. 

He's  made  him  a  ship  o'  the  goodly  ash 

The  sides  thereof  were  wan ; 
The  first  water  he  sailed  upon 

He  was  the  heavier  man. 

A'  the  oars  were  wrought  of  gold 

And  a'  the  sails  of  red ; 
The  last  water  he  sailed  upon 

He  seemed  he  was  but  dead. 

But  he's  won  back  to  Wearieswa* 

That  was  hard  on  a  great  sea; 
His  hair  was  fu'  of  the  wan  sea-water 

And  he  halted  of  his  knee. 

Between  the  sea  and  the  sea-banks 

He's  let  his  bonny  ship  stand ; 
His  clothes  were  fu'  of  the  wan  rain-water 

And  he  halted  of  his  hand. 

O  I  will  draw  to  me  a  weed, 

A  weed  baith  poor  and  low, 
And  I  will  gang  before  my  lady's  face, 

To  see  if  she  will  me  know. 

61 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

And  he  has  drawn  to  him  a  weed 
A  weed  of  yellow  and  black; 

But  there  was  nae  hood  behind  his  hair 
To  hang  down  at  his  back. 

The  first  gate  that  he  came  to 
It  was  little  for  his  delight; 

The  knappies  that  were  that  gate  upon 
They  were  hewn  of  siller  white. 

The  last  gate  that  he  came  by 

It  was  little  for  his  ease; 
Before  he  had  well  won  ower  it, 

The  blood  ran  frae  his  knees. 

The  neist  gate  that  he  came  by 
His  comfort  was  waxen  cold; 

Every  bolt  that  gate  within 
It  was  carven  of  red  gold. 

And  he's  gane  up  to  the  high  chamber, 
He's  found  that  lady  there, 

The  red  sendal  on  her  body, 
And  the  red  gold  in  her  hair. 

And  as  he  stood  low  and  very  low 

Amang  thae  goodly  men ; 
He  stood  amang  them  hoodless, 

There  was  nae  man  did  him  ken. 

62 


WEARIESWA' 

And  she  spied  him  weel  and  very  weel 

Gin  she  might  his  body  see; 
O  wha  is  yon  gangs  hoodless, 

For  my  love  it  mauna  be. 

And  she  sought  weel  and  very  weel 

Gin  she  might  him  behold; 
She  was  mair  fair  of  his  fair  body 

Than  the  rain  is  of  the  mould. 

And  a'  the  men  that  were  her  before 
They  were  red  and  nothing  wan; 

And  when  she  saw  his  goodly  face, 
She  weened  it  was  another  man. 

And  when  she  looked  his  face  upon, 

It  was  wan  and  nothing  red, 
And  a'  his  hair  was  riven  wi'  rain 

That  rained  upon  his  head. 

0  ye'll  take  out  yon  hoodless  man, 
That  hirples  on  the  marl ; 

1  thought  it  were  my  love,  Hynd  Robert, 
It  is  but  a  hireman  carl. 

And  ye'll  take  out  yon  gangrel  fellow 

That  hirples  on  the  clay; 
I  thought  it  were  my  love,  Hynd  Robert, 

That  hae  been  lang  away. 

63 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

He's  taen  him  down  to  yon  wan  water-stand, 

The  tears  fell  ower  his  een; 
Before  he  was  weel  in  his  goodly  ship 

The  wind  began  to  ween. 

He's  turned  his  face  to  the  fair  leeland, 

He  was  right  fu'  o'  care; 
Before  he  was  weel  upon  the  sea, 

The  water  was  waxen  sair. 

Ye'll  cast  me  in  the  heavy  water 

That  is  both  green  and  black, 
And  ye'll  bind  my  feet  with  a  twine  of  silk; 

Pray  for  the  storms  to  slack. 

Ye'll  cast  me  in  the  weary  water 

That  is  both  green  and  grey, 
And  ye'll  bind  my  arms  upon  my  back; 

Pray  for  the  rains  to  stay. 

And  they've  cast  over  his  fair  body 

In  the  water  that  was  sae  white ; 
And  they  drove  over  before  the  wind 

A  day's  space  and  a  night. 

The  first  wave  that  cam  nigh  the  ship 

It  smote  her  in  the  side; 
And  ever  alas!  quo'  the  ae  first  man, 

"This  water  is  ill  to  bide!" 

64 


WEARIESWA' 

The  neist  wave  that  cam  nigh  the  ship, 

It  smote  her  in  the  head; 
"Haul  round,  haul  round,"  quo'  the  eldest  man, 

"This  water  maun  be  our  deid!" 

And  they  spied  ower  the  wan  sea  wide 

To  see  gin  ony  help  might  be; 
And  there  they  saw  him,  Hynd  Robert, 

That  fleeted  upright  in  the  sea. 

And  they  spied  out  upon  the  sea, 

It  was  a  weary  water  and  wan ; 
And  there  they  saw  him,  Hynd  Robert 

That  fleeted  as  a  living  man. 

"O  whatten  a  weird  is  this,  Hynd  Robert, 

That  is  of  your  body, 
To  fleet  out  ower  in  the  easterin'  wind 

That  thraws  upon  the  sea?" 

The  wind  shall  blaw  in  the  wan  water, 

It  shall  never  slack  for  me, 
Till  ye  bring  my  lady  to  yon  sea-sand, 

Cast  her  body  in  the  sea. 

The  wind  shall  thraw  in  the  wild  water; 

I  wot  it  shall  never  bide, 
Till  ye  bring  that  lady  to  your  sea-banks, 

Cast  her  body  ower  the  ship's  side. 

65 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

They've  had  that  lady  to  yon  sea-banks 
And  ower  by  yon  heather  hie; 

They  bound  her  hands  before  her  face, 
Cast  her  body  in  the  sea. 


66 


THE  EARL  OF  MAR'S  DAUGHTER 

[It  is  doubtful  whether  this  ballad  has  any  right  to  be  in- 
cluded among  the  original  works  of  Swinburne,  but  it  gives 
interesting  evidence  of  the  activity  of  his  mind  and  of  his 
attitude  to  the  old  poetry  of  the  Border.  The  MS.  was 
found  with  those  of  several  other  ballads,  most  of  them  pub- 
lished in  the  Third  Series  of  Poems  and  Ballads  ( 1889),  and 
was  probably  written  in  1862  or  1863.  At  first  sight  it 
seems  like  an  attempt  to  re-compose  from  memory  the  well- 
known  ballad  of  "Earl  Mar's  Daughter,"  which  was  origi- 
nally published  in  1828  by  Peter  Buchan  in  his  Ancient  Bal- 
lads and  Songs  of  the  North  of  Scotland.  The  story  is  ex- 
actly identical,  and  the  diction  sometimes  very  close;  for 
instance,  the  AUingham-Buchan  version  begins : — 

"It  was  intill  a  pleasant  time. 
Upon  a  simmer's  day, 
The  noble  Earl  Mars  daughter 
Went  forth  to  sport  and  play. 

And  as  she  playd  and  sported 

Below  a  green  aik  tree, 
There  she  saw  a  sprightly  doo 

Set  on  a  branch  sae  hie," 

and  so  forth.  But  what  a  closer  study  of  the  MS.  shows  is 
that  Swinburne,  conscious  of  much  that  is  vulgar  and  mod- 
ern in  Buchan's  version,  was  setting  himself  the  task  of  re- 
composing  the  ballad  in  language  more  severely  archaic. 
This  was  actually  done,  to  some  extent,  by  William  Ailing- 
ham  in  the  Ballad  Book  of  1864,  and  it  is  possible  that  Al- 
lingham's  partial  success  induced  Swinburne  to  lay  aside  his 
project.  He  was,  however,  far  ahead  of  his  time  in  perceiv- 
ing that  a  loose  roughness  of  texture  was  essential  to  the 

67 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

original  form  of  every  genuine  Border  ballad,  and  an  exami- 
nation of  the  MS.  of  the  "Earl  of  Mar's  Daughter"  shows, 
by  its  innumerable  alterations  and  reconsiderations  of  the 
text,  that  Swinburne  laboured  with  the  utmost  courage  and 
assiduity  to  recover  the  primitive  diction  and  to  remove 
what  some  one  has  called  "the  plague  of  marketable  neat- 
ness" which  disfigures  the  usual  recast  of  a  romantic  ballad. 
Unfortunately,  he  did  not  in  this  case  pursue  his  task  to  its 
conclusion. — E.  G.] 

It  was  intill  a  goodly  time, 

The  first  morning  in  May, 
The  bonny  Earl  of  Mar's  daughter 

Went  forth  hersell  to  play. 

She's  tane  her  to  the  bonny  birkenshaw 

Amang  the  fair  green  leaves; 
There  she  saw  a  bonny  doo 

Sat  on  the  leaf  o'  the  tree. 

"O  Coo-me-doo,  my  love  sae  true, 

Gin  ye'll  come  down  to  me, 
I'll  gie  ye  a  cage  of  good  red  gowd 

For  a  cage  of  greenshaw  tree. 

"Gowden  hingers  roun'  your  cage, 

And  siller  roun'  your  wa', 
I'll  gar  ye  shine  as  bonny  a  bird 

As  the  bonniest  ower  them  a'." 

She  hadna  weel  these  words  spoken, 

Nor  yet  she  hadna  said, 
Till  Coo-me-doo  flew  frae  the  leaves 

And  lighted  on  her  head. 
68 


THE   EARL   OF   MAR'S    DAUGHTER 

And  she's  tane  hame  this  bonny  bird, 
Brought  him  to  bower  and  ha'; 

She's  garred  him  shine  the  bonniest  bird 
That  was  out  ower  them  a'. 

When  day  was  gane  and  night  was  come 
In  ae  chamber  they  were  that  tide; 

And  there  she  saw  a  goodly  young  man 
Stood  straight  up  at  her  side. 

"How  cam  ye  in  my  bower-chamber, 

For  sair  it  marvels  me, 
For  the  bolts  are  made  o'  the  good  red  gowd 

And  the  door-shafts  of  a  good  tree." 

"O  haud  your  tongue  now,  May  Janet, 
And  of  your  talking  let  me  be; 

Mind  ye  not  on  your  turtle-doo 
That  ye  brought  hame  wi'  ye?" 

"O  whatten  a  man  are  ye,"  she  said, 

"Fu'  sair  this  marvels  me; 
I  doubt  ye  are  some  keen  warlock 

That  wons  out  ower  the  sea. 

"O  come  ye  here  for  ills?"  she  says, 

"Or  come  ye  for  my  good? 
I  doubt  ye  are  some  strong  warlock 

That  wons  out  ower  the  flood." 

69 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

"My  mither  is  lady  of  strange  landis 

Stand  far  out  ower  the  sea; 
She  witched  me  to  a  birdie's  shape 

For  the  love  of  your  body. 

"My  mither  is  queen  of  the  witch-landis 
Lie  baith  to  north  and  south; 

She  witched  me  to  a  birdie's  body 
For  the  love  of  your  goodly  mouth. 

"She  can  well  of  witches'  work, 
She  maketh  baith  mirth  and  meen; 

She  witched  me  to  a  little  bird's  body 
For  the  love  of  your  twa  grey  een. 

"It  was  a'  for  your  yellow  hair 

That  I  cam  ower  the  sea; 
And  it  was  a'  for  your  bonny  mouth 

I  took  sic  weird  on  me." 

"O  Coo-me-doo,  my  love  sae  true, 

Nae  mair  frae  me  ye'se  gae. 
The  stanes  shall  fleet  on  the  wan  waters 

Before  we  twain  be  twey. 

"O  Coo-me-doo,  my  love  sae  true, 

It's  time  we  were  abed." 
"O  weel  for  you,  my  ain  sweet  thing, 

It's  be  as  ye  have  said." 
70 


THE   EARL  OF   MAR'S   DAUGHTER 

Then  he's  dwelt  in  her  bower-chamber 

Fu'  sax  lang  years  and  ane, 
And  seven  fair  sons  she's  borne  to  him, 

Fairer  was  there  never  nane. 

The  first  bairn  she's  borne  to  him 

He's  tane  him  ower  the  sea; 
He's  gien  it  to  his  auld  mither, 

Bade  well  nourished  it  should  be. 

The  seventh  bairn  she's  borne  to  him, 

He's  tane  him  frae  his  make; 
He's  gien  it  to  his  auld  mither, 

Bade  nourice  it  for  his  sake. 

And  he's  dwelt  in  her  bower-chamber 

Fu'  six  years  thro'  and  three, 
Till  there  is  comen  an  auld  grey  knight 

Her  wed-lord  for  to  be ; 
She  had  nae  will  to  his  gowden  gifts 

Nor  wad  she  to  his  fee. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Out  then  spak  the  bonny  bird, 

He  heard  what  they  did  say; 
Says:  "Wae's  be  to  you,  ye  auld  grey  man, 

For  it's  time  I  were  away." 

Then  Coo-me-doo  took  flight  and  flew 

He  flew  out  ower  the  sea; 
He's  lighted  by  his  mither's  castle-ha' 

On  a  tower  of  gold  fu'  hie. 


71 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN 

"The  unfriendly  elements 
Forget  thee  utterly — 

Where,  for  a  monument  upon  thy  bones. 
And  e'er-remaining  lamps,  the  belching  whale 
And  humming  water  must  overwhelm  thy  corpse; 
Lying  with  simple  shells/' — Pericles. 


As  one  who  having  dreamed  all  night  of  death 
Puts  out  a  hand  to  feel  the  sleeping  face 
Next  his,  and  wonders  that  the  lips  have  breath — 
So  we,  for  years  not  touching  on  their  trace, 
Marvelled  at  news  of  those  we  counted  dead, 
"For  now  the  strong  snows  in  some  iron  place 
Have  covered  them ;  their  end  shall  not  be  said 
Till  all  the  hidden  parts  of  time  be  plain 
And  all  the  writing  of  all  years  be  read." 
So  men  spake  sadly;  and  their  speech  was  vain, 
For  here  the  end  stands  clear,  and  men  at  ease 
May  gather  the  sharp  fruit  of  that  past  pain 
Out  in  some  barren  creek  of  the  cold  seas, 
Where  the  slow  shapes  of  the  grey  water-weed 
Freeze  midway  as  the  languid  inlets  freeze. 

75 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

II 

This  is  the  end.     There  is  no  nobler  word 
In  the  large  writing  and  scored  marge  of  time 
Than  such  endurance  is.     Ear  hath  not  heard 
Nor  hath  eye  seen  in  the  world's  bounded  clime 
The  patience  of  their  life,  as  the  sharp  years 
And  the  slow  months  wrought  out  their  rounded 

rhyme 
No  man  made  count  of  those  keen  hopes  and 

fears, 
Which  were  such  labour  to  them,  it  may  be; 
That  strong  sweet  will  whereto  pain  ministers 
And  sharpest  time  doth  service  patiently. 
Wrought  without  praise  or  failed  without  a 

name, 
Those  gulfs  and  inlets  of  the  channelled  sea 
Hide  half  the  witness  that  should  fill  with  fame 
Our  common  air  in  England,  and  the  breath 
That  speech  of  them  should  kindle  to  keen  flame 
Flags  in  the  midway  record  of  their  death. 


Ill 


Is  this  the  end?  is  praise  so  light  a  thing 

As  rumour  unto  rumour  tendereth 

And  time  wears  out  of  care  and  thanksgiving? 

Then  praise  and  shame  have  narrow  difference, 

76 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN 

If  either  fly  with  so  displumed  wing 
That  chance  and  time  and  this  imprisoned  sense 
Can  maim  or  measure  the  spanned  flight  of  it 
By  the  ruled  blanks  of  their  experience, 
Then  only  Fortune  hath  the  scroll  and  writ 
Of  all  good  deeds  our  memory  lives  upon; 
And  the  slack  judgment  of  her  barren  wit 
Appoints  the  award  of  all  things  that  are  done. 


IV 


The  perfect  choice  and  rarest  of  all  good 
Abides  not  in  broad  air  or  public  sun; 
Being  spoken  of,  it  is  not  understood; 
Being  shown,  it  has  no  beauty  to  be  loved; 
And  the  slow  pulse  of  each  man's  daily  blood 
For  joy  thereat  is  not  more  quickly  moved; 
Itself  has  knowledge  of  itself,  and  is 
By  its  own  witness  measured  and  approved; 
Yea,  even  well  pleased  to  be  otherwise; 
Nor  wear  the  raiment  of  a  good  repute 
Nor  have  the  record  of  large  memories. 
Close  leaves  combine  above  the  covered  fruit; 
Earth,  that  gives  much,  holds  back  her  costliest; 
And  in  blind  night  sap  comes  into  the  root; 
Things  known  are  good  but  hidden  things  are 

best. 
Therefore,  albeit  we  know  good  deeds  of  these, 

77 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Let  no  man  deem  he  knows  their  worthiest. 
He  who  hath  found  the  measure  of  the  seas, 
And  the  wind's  ways  hath  ruled  and  limited, 
And  knows  the  print  of  their  wild  passages, 
The  same  may  speak  the  praise  of  these  men 

dead. 
And  having  heard  him  we  may  surely  know 
There  is  no  more  to  say  than  he  hath  said 
And  as  his  witness  is  the  thing  was  so. 


V 

What  praise  shall  England  give  these  men  her 

friends? 
For  while  the  bays  and  the  large  channels  flow, 
In  the  broad  sea  between  the  iron  ends 
Of  the  poised  world  where  no  safe  sail  may  be, 
And  for  white  miles  the  hard  ice  never  blends 
With  the  chill  washing  edges  of  dull  sea — 
And  while  to  praise  her  green  and  girdled  land 
Shall  be  the  same  as  to  praise  Liberty — 
So  long  the  record  of  these  men  shall  stand, 
Because  they  chose  not  life  but  rather  death, 
Each  side  being  weighed  with  a  most  equal  hand, 
Because  the  gift  they  had  of  English  breath 
They  did  give  back  to  England  for  her  sake, 
Like  those  dead  seamen  of  Elizabeth 
And  those  wTho  wrought  with  Nelson  or  with 

Blake 
78 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN 

To  do  great  England  service  their  lives  long — 
High  honour  shall  they  have;  their  deeds  shall 

make 
Their  spoken  names  sound  sweeter  than  all  song. 
This  England  hath  not  made  a  better  man, 
More  steadfast,  or  more  wholly  pure  of  wrong 
Since  the  large  book  of  English  praise  began. 
For  out  of  his  great  heart  and  reverence, 
And  finding  love  too  large  for  life  to  span, 
He  gave  up  life,  that  she  might  gather  thence 
The  increase  of  the  seasons  and  their  praise. 
Therefore  his  name  shall  be  her  evidence, 
And  wheresoever  tongue  or  thought  gainsays 
Our  land  the  witness  of  her  ancient  worth 
She  may  make  answer  to  the  later  days 
That  she  was  chosen  also  for  this  birth, 
And  take  all  honour  to  herself  and  laud, 
Because  such  men  are  made  out  of  her  earth. 
Yea,  wheresoever  her  report  is  broad, 
This  new  thing  also  shall  be  said  of  her 
That  hearing  it,  hate  may  not  stand  unawed — 
That  Franklin  was  her  friend  and  minister; 
So  shall  the  alien  tongue  forego  its  blame, 
And  for  his  love  shall  hold  her  lovelier 
And  for  his  worth  more  worthy;  so  his  fame 
Shall  be  the  shield  and  strength  of  her  defence, 
Since  where  he  was  can  be  not  any  shame. 


79 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

VI 

These  things  that  are  and  shall  abide  from  hence 

It  may  be  that  he  sees  them  now,  being  dead. 

And  it  may  be  that  when  the  smitten  sense 

Began  to  pause,  and  pain  was  quieted, 

And  labour  almost  kissed  the  lips  of  peace, 

And  sound  and  sight  of  usual  things  had  fled 

From  the  most  patient  face  of  his  decease, 

He  saw  them  also  then ;  we  cannot  say, 

But  surely  when  the  pained  breath  found  ease 

And  put  the  heaviness  of  life  away, 

Such  things  as  these  were  not  estranged  from 

him. 
The  soul,  grown  too  rebellious  to  stay, 
This  shameful  body  where  all  things  are  dim, 
Abode  awhile  in  them  and  was  made  glad 
In  its  blind  pause  upon  the  middle  rim 
Between  the  new  life  and  the  life  it  had, 
This  noble  England  that  must  hold  him  dear 
Always,  and  always  in  his  name  keep  sad 
Her  histories,  and  embalm  with  costly  fear 
And  with  rare  hope  and  with  a  royal  pride 
Her  memories  of  him  that  honoured  her, 
Was  this  not  worth  the  pain  wherein  he  died? 
And  in  that  lordly  praise  and  large  account 
Was  not  his  ample  spirit  satisfied? 
He  who  slakes  thirst  at  some  uncleaner  fount 
Shall  thirst  again;  but  he  shall  win  full  ease 
Who  finds  pure  wells  far  up  the  painful  mount. 

80 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN 

VII 

For  the  laborious  time  went  hard  with  these 
Among  the  thousand  colours  and  gaunt  shapes 
Of  the  strong  ice  cloven  with  breach  of  seas, 
Where  the  waste  sullen  shadow  of  steep  capes 
Narrows  across  the  cloudy-coloured  brine, 
And  by  strong  jets  the  angered  foam  escapes; 
And  a  sad  touch  of  sun  scores  the  sea-line 
Right  at  the  middle  motion  of  the  noon 
And  then  fades  sharply  back,  and  the  cliffs  shine 
Fierce  with  keen  snows  against  a  kindled  moon 
In  the  hard  purple  of  the  bitter  sky, 
And  thro'  some  rift  as  tho'  an  axe  had  hewn 
Two  spars  of  crag  athwart  alternately. 
Flares  the  loose  light  of  that  large  Boreal  day 
Down  half  the  sudden  heaven,  and  with  a  cry 
Sick  sleep  is  shaken  from  the  soul  away 
And  men  leap  up  to  see  and  have  delight 
For  the  sharp  flame  and  strength  of  its  white  ray 
From  east  to  west  burning  upon  the  night; 
And  cliff  and  berg  take  fire  from  it,  and  stand 
Like  things  distinct  in  customary  sight, 
And  all  the  northern  foam  and  frost,  and  all 
The  wild  ice  lying  large  to  either  hand; 
And  like  the  broken  stones  of  some  strange  wall 
Built  to  be  girdle  to  the  utmost  earth, 
Brow-bound  with  snows  and  made  imperial, 
Lean  crags  with  coloured  ice  for  crown  and  girth 

81 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Stand  midway  with  those  iron  seas  in  face 
Far  up  the  straitened  shallows  of  the  firth. 

VIII 

So  winter-bound  in  such  disastrous  place, 
Doubtless  the  time  seemed  heavier  and  more 

hard 
Than  elsewhere  in  all  scope  and  range  of  space, 
Doubtless    the   backward    thought    and   broad 

regard 
Was  bitter  to  their  souls,  remembering 
How  in  soft  England  the  warm  lands  were 

starred 
With  gracious  flowers  in  the  green  tfront  of 

spring, 
And  all  the  branches'  tender  over-growth, 
Where   the  quick  birds  took  sudden  heart  to 

sing; 
And  how  the  meadows  in  their  sweet  May  sloth 
Grew  thick  with  grass  as  soft  as  song  or  sleep ; 
So,  looking  back,  their  hearts  grew  sere  and 

loath 
And  their  chafed  pulses  felt  the  blood  to  creep 
More  vexed  and  painfully;  yea  and  this  too 
Possessed  perchance  their  eyes  with  thirst  to 

weep 
More  than  green  fields  or  the  May  weather's 

blue — 
82 


THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN 

Mere  recollection  of  all  dearer  things. 
Slight  words  they  used  to  say,  slight  work  to  do, 
When  every  day  was  more  than  many  springs, 
And  the  strong  April  moved  at  heart,  and  made 
Sweet  mock  at  fortune  and  the  seat  of  kings; 
The  naked  sea  and  the  bare  lengths  of  land 
And  all  the  years  that  fade  and  grow  and  fade 
Were  pleasant  years  for  them  to  live  upon, 
And  time's  gold  raiment  was  not  rent  nor  frayed ; 
But  now  they  know  not  if  such  things  be  done, 
Nor  how  the  old  ways  and  old  places  fare, 
Nor  whether  there  be  change  in  the  glad  sun, 
Defect  and  loss  in  all  the  fragrant  air, 
New  feet  are  in  the  waymarks  of  their  feet, 
The  bitter  savour  of  remembered  sweet 
No  doubt  did  touch  their  lips  in  some  sharp 

guise, 
No  doubt  the  pain  of  thought  and  fever-heat 
Put  passion  in  the  patience  of  their  eyes. 


IX 


Yet  in  the  edge  and  keenest  nerve  of  pain, — 
For  such  no  comfort  ever  wholly  dies, — 
And  as  hurt  patience  healed  and  grew  again, 
This  knowledge  came,  that  neither  land  nor  life 
Nor  all  soft  things  whereof  the  will  is  fain 
Nor  love  of  friends  nor  wedded  faith  of  wife 

83 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Nor  all  of  these  nor  any  among  these 
Make  a  man's  best,  but  rather  loss  and  strife, 
Failure,  endurance,  and  high  scorn  of  ease, 
Love  strong  as  death  and  valour  strong  as  love; 
Therefore  among  the  winter-wasted  seas, 
No  flaw  being  found  upon  them  to  reprove, — 
These  whom  God's  grace,  calling  them  one  by 

one, 
In  unknown  ways  did  patiently  remove, 
To  have  new  heaven  and  earth,  new  air  and 

sun, — 
These    chose    the    best,    therefore    their    name 

shall  be 
Part  of  all  noble  things  that  shall  be  done, 
Part  of  the  royal  record  of  the  sea. 

1858. 


84 


THE  CUP  OF  GOD'S  WRATH 


DRINK  deep  and  spare  not:  it  is  great  and  wide; 

The  corners  of  it  are  made  thick  with  gold; 

The  wine  of  it  was  trodden  out  of  old 
In  the  wine-press  of  Egypt,  where  man's  pride 
Was  in  his  purple  raiment  sewn  and  dyed, 

And  he  grew  lusty  in  God's  sight,  and  bold. 

The  grapes  of  it  were  never  bought  or  sold. 
God's  anger  hath  made  red  its  throat  and  side; 
Choice  of  quaint  spices  hath  he  mixed  therein, 

And  poisoned  honey  of  a  bitter  juice, 
Under  that  heavy  lid  where  it  hath  been 

Covered  like  oil  within  a  little  cruise: 
What  man  hath  will  to  wet  his  lips  between, 

The  wine  is  poured  and  trodden  for  his  use. 

II 

As  one  mows  down  to  burn  dead  grass  and  weeds 
Wherein  the  corn  was  choked  and  overgrown, 
So  in  Time's  hand  hath  Change  the  sickle 

mown 

An  overgrowth  of  evil  days  and  deeds; 

85 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

And,  as  in  meadows  where  the  strong  flame  feeds, 
The  land  is  waste  and  eaten  to  the  bone 
In  fields  of  dust  with  ashes  overblown 

To  where  the  river  trembles  in  its  reeds, 

So  are  the  churches  and  broad  halls  burnt  up; 
The  priests  and  princes  gathered  into  sheaves 
And  bound  for  burning;  such  a  fire  begins 
The  melting  of  gold  pieces  and  gold  sins, 
111  treasure-traffic,  the  market-place  of  thieves, 

For  whose  sake  God  shall  pour  out  all  his  cup. 

Oxford. 


86 


ECHO 

IN  the  dusk  of  starlit  hours 

Thro'  the  woodland's  dewy  maze 
Scattering  music,  scattering  flowers 

Down  the  glimmering  forest  ways, 
O'er  the  smooth  moss-paven  level, 

Past  the  mountain's  windy  brow, 
Come  the  Nymphs  in  crowded  revel, 

Calling,  Echo,  Echo!  where  art  thou? 

By  the  far  and  misty  glimmer 

Of  these  pale  Lethean  lakes, 
Whose  dusk  waves  in  twilight  shimmer 

When  the  faint  Sun  on  them  breaks, 
Where  no  sorrowing  thoughts  appal  thee, 

Hast  thou  sought  a  place  of  sleep 
Heeding  not  how  loud  we  call  thee — 

Echo,  Echo! — thro'  the  woodlands  deep? 

We  have  sought  thee  till  the  Hours, 

Slow^  darkening  to  the  west, 
Left  thee  turning  funeral  flowers 

In  some  haunt  of  dreary  rest, 
Where  the  cloud  of  dewy  tresses 

On  thy  wan  and  downcast  brow 
Like  a  weight  of  sorrow  presses; 

Call  aloud,  Echo!  Echo!  where  art  thou? 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

In  the  soft  green  summer-meadows 

Where  the  silent  streams  are  flowing 
In  the  happy  woodland  shadows 

Where  the  softest  winds  are  blowing, 
Where  amid  their  heaped  flowers 

Children  call  thee  soft  and  low, 
In  the  hush  of  golden  hours 

Singing,  Echo,  Echo!  where  art  thou? 

When  the  wind-vext  earth  returneth 

To  the  light  of  stormless  days, 
And  the  wide  noon-splendour  burneth 

On  the  lustrous  ocean-ways, 
Still  thou  sittest  weeping  lowly 

In  the  dim  heart  of  the  brakes, 
In  the  silence  wide  and  holy — 

Echo,  Echo ! — which  the  deep  wood  makes. 

Echo,  Echo!  we  are  weary 

And  the  forest-path  is  long, 
And  the  brightest  glades  are  dreary 

If  unwaken'd  by  thy  song. 
Hark!  her  voice  afar  is  singing — 

O  our  sister,  where  art  thou? 
All  the  joyous  words  are  ringing; 

Be  with  us,  Echo!  Echo!  hear  us  now. 

Oxford. 

88 


DIES  IR#) 

Day  of  wrath,  the  years  are  keeping, 
When  the  world  shall  rise  from  sleeping, 
With  a  clamour  of  great  weeping  I 

Earth  shall  fear  and  tremble  greatly 

To  behold  the  advent  stately 

Of  the  Judge  that  judgeth  straitly. 

And  the  trumpet's  fierce  impatience 
Scatter  strange  reverberations 
Thro'  the  graves  of  buried  nations. 

Death  and  Nature  will  stand  stricken 
When  the  hollow  bones  shall  quicken 
And  the  air  with  weeping  thicken. 

When  the  Creature,  sorrow-smitten, 
Rises  where  the  Judge  is  sitting 
And  beholds  the  doom-book  written. 

For,  that  so  his  wrath  be  slaked, 
All  things  sleeping  shall  be  waked. 
All  things  hidden  shall  be  naked. 

89 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

When  the  just  are  troubled  for  thee, 
Who  shall  plead  for  me  before  thee, 
Who  shall  stand  up  to  implore  thee? 

Lest  my  great  sin  overthrow  me, 
Let  thy  mercy,  quickened  thro'  me, 
As  a  fountain  overflow  me! 

For  my  sake  thy  soul  was  moved; 
For  my  sake  thy  name  reproved, 
Lose  me  not  whom  thou  hast  loved! 

Yea,  when  shame  and  pain  were  sorest, 
For  my  love  the  cross  thou  borest, 
For  my  love  the  thorn-plait  worest. 

By  that  pain  that  overbore  thee, 
By  those  tears  thou  weptest  for  me, 
Leave  me  strength  to  stand  before  thee. 

For  the  heart  within  me  yearneth, 
And  for  sin  my  whole  face  burneth; 
Spare  me  when  thy  day  returneth. 

By  the  Magdalen  forgiven, 

By  the  thief  made  pure  for  heaven, 

Even  to  me  thy  hope  was  given. 

Tho'  great  shame  be  heavy  on  me, 
Grant  thou,  Lord,  whose  mercy  won  me, 
That  hell  take  not  hold  upon  me. 

90 


DIES  IRJE 

Thou  whom  I  have  loved  solely, 
Thou  whom  I  have  loved  wholly, 
Leave  me  place  among  the  holy! 

When  thy  sharp  wrath  burns  like  fire, 
With  the  chosen  of  thy  desire, 
Call  me  to  the  crowned  choir! 

Prayer,  like  flame  with  ashes  blending, 
From  my  crushed  heart  burns  ascending; 
Have  thou  care  for  my  last  ending. 


Oxford. 


91 


AUTUMN  RONDEL 

FROM  spring  to  fall  the  year  makes  merry 
With  days  to  days  that  chant  and  call : 
With  hopes  to  crown  and  fears  to  bury 
With  crowns  of  flowers  and  flowers  for  pall, 
With  bloom  and  song  and  bird  and  berry 
That  fill  the  months  with  festival 
From  spring  to  fall. 

Who  knows  if  ever  skies  were  dreary 
With  shower  and  cloud  and  waterfall? 
While  yet  the  world's  good  heart  is  cheery, 
Who  knows  if  rains  will  ever  brawl? 
The  storm  thinks  long,  the  winds  wax  weary, 
Till  winter  comes  to  wind  up  all 
From  spring  to  fall. 


92 


A  CAROL  FOR  CHARITY 

Winter,  friend  of  health  and  wealth, 
Hailed  of  goodly  girls  and  boys, 

Slays  the  poor  by  strength  and  stealth, 
Makes  their  lives  his  lifeless  toys. 

One  boy  goes  galloping  over  the  moorland, 
Wild  with  delight  of  the  sunshine  and  speed, 

Blithe  as  a  bird  on  his  bleak  bright  foreland, 
Glad  as  the  wind  or  his  own  glad  steed. 

One,  with  darkness  and  toil  fast  bound, 

Bound  in  riisery  and  iron  fast, 
Drags  his  nakedness  underground, 

Sees  the  mine  as  the  world  at  last. 

Winter,  lord  of  laughing  Yule, 
Winter,  weeping  on  his  dead, 

Bids  us  ease  his  iron  rule, 

Bids  us  bring  his  poor  men  bread. 


93 


A  SONG  FOR  MARGARET  MIDHURST 

God  send  the  sea  sorrow 

And  all  men  that  sail  thorough. 

God  give  the  wild  sea  woe, 
And  all  ships  that  therein  go. 

My  love  went  out  with  dawn's  light; 
He  went  down  ere  it  was  night. 

God  give  no  live  man  good 
That  sails  over  the  sea's  flood. 

God  give  all  live  men  teen 
That  sail  over  the  waves  green. 

God  send  for  my  love's  sake 
All  their  lovers'  hearts  break. 

Many  sails  went  over  sea; 
One  took  my  heart  from  me. 

All  they,  saving  one, 

Came  in  landward  under  the  sun. 

Many  sails  stood  in  from  sea; 
One  twinned  my  heart  and  me. 
94 


A  SONG  FOR  MARGARET  MIDHURST 

Waves  white  and  waves  black, 
One  sail  they  sent  not  back. 

Many  maidens  laughed  that  tide; 
I  fell  down  and  sore  sighed. 

Many  mouths  I  saw  kiss; 

No  man  kissed  there  mine,  I  wis. 

Many  gat  there  brooch  and  glove; 
I  gat  but  loss  of  love. 

I  rose  and  sighed  sore; 

I  set  my  face  from  the  shore. 

On  my  fingers  fair  gold  rings, 
In  my  heart  bitter  things. 

In  mine  hair  combs  of  pride, 
I  stood  up  and  sore  sighed. 

I  looked  out  over  sea; 

Never  a  man's  eye  looked  to  me. 

I  cried  out  over  the  tide; 

Never  a  man's  mouth  on  me  cried. 

I  came  there  a  goodly  thing; 
I  was  full  wan  ere  evening. 

I  came  there  fresh  and  red; 
I  came  thence  like  one  dead. 

I  came  there  glad  and  lief; 
I  came  thence  with  heart's  grief. 
95 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

God  give  all  men  grief,  I  say, 
That  sail  over  the  seas  grey. 

I  laid  my  head  to  the  sea-stone; 
I  made  my  bed  there  alone. 

I  made  my  bed  into  the  sand, 
Betwixen  sea  and  green  land. 

Betwixen  land  and  green  sea 
Sorrows  and  sorrows  fell  on  me. 

In  yellow  sea-sand  washen  well, 
Weary  watches  on  me  fell. 

There  all  a  night  I  lay: 
I  would  I  had  died  ere  day. 

There  in  the  young  light 

I  looked  over  the  waves  white. 

There  all  a  day  I  stood 
Looking  over  the  sea's  flood. 

I  saw  waves  black  and  green, 
But  no  man's  sail  between. 

I  saw  waves  blue  and  white, 
But  no  sails  under  the  light. 

There  was  no  wind  passed  me  by, 
But  I  was  like  to  die. 

I  sought  long  and  I  sought  sore, 
And  aye  my  tears  fell  more. 

96 


A  SONG  FOR  MARGARET  MIDHURST 

I  found  sorrow  and  much  pain, 
But  not  my  lover  again. 

God  gave  me  a  green  bed 
And  no  pillow  to  my  head. 

God  gave  me  brief  life's  breath 
And  a  good  sleep  after  death. 


97 


LOVE  AND  SLEEP 


Let  me  forget  a  little  space, 

O  love,  let  love  forget! 

Or,  if  love  will  not  let, 
Blind  thou  with  hair  and  hands  his  eyes  and 

face ; 

Blind  him  and  bind  him,  memory,  tho'  he  fret, 
And  weep,  and  shift  his  place. 

Thou  seest  how  well  the  old  loves  sleep, 

Each  in  a  small  sweet  bed, 

With  flowers  at  foot  and  head, 
Made  out  of  griefs  not  grown  enough  to  weep, 

And  joys  so  young  their  lips  are  hardly  red, 
And  their  hearts  hardly  leap. 

Watch  lest  they  wake,  sweet  Memory;  set 

A  seal  upon  thy  breath, 

As  one  that  sorroweth; 
And  hide  thine  eyes,  and  thou  too  shalt  forget; 

And  sleep  shall  lead  love  by  the  hand  to  death, 
And  life  be  quiet  yet. 

98 


LOVE  AND  SLEEP 

II 

Hide  thine  eyes  for  all  their  light, 
Lest  they  come  to  weep ; 

Who  shall  say  if  day  or  night 
Be  the  best  for  sleep? 

If  by  day  they  wake, 

Sorrow  surely  shall  they  see; 
And  for  sorrow's  sake 

Joyless  all  their  joy  shall  be. 

Sun  shall  set  and  moon  shall  rise 

Till  the  end  of  years, 
But  by  night  were  never  eyes 

Watched  and  shed  not  tears. 

Look  not  forth  to  find 

Where  thou  never  shalt  find  rest, 
Lest  thine  eyes  wax  blind, 

Love  is  good,  but  sleep  is  best. 


99 


EVENING  BY  THE  SEA 

It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 
The  trees  looked  weary — one  by  one 

Against  the  west  they  seemed  to  sway, 
And  yet  were  steady.    The  sad  sun 

In  a  sick  doubt  of  colour  lay 
Across  the  water's  belt  of  dun. 

On  the  weak  wind  scarce  flakes  of  foam 
There  floated,  hardly  borne  at  all 

From  the  rent  edge  of  water — some 
Between  slack  gusts  the  wind  let  fall, 

The  white  brine  could  not  overcome 
That  pale  grass  on  the  southern  wall. 

That  evening  one  could  always  hear 
The  sharp  hiss  of  the  shingle,  rent 

As  each  wave  settled  heavier, 
The  same  rough  way.     This  noise  was 

blent 
With  many  sounds  that  hurt  the  air 
As  the  salt  sea-wind  came  and  went. 

The  wind  wailed  once  and  was  not.    Then 
The  white  sea  touching  its  salt  edge 
ioo 


EVENING  BY  THE  SEA 

Dropped  in  a  slow  low  sigh:  again 
The  ripples  deepened  to  the  ledge, 

Across  the  beach  from  marsh  and  fen 
Came  a  faint  smell  of  rotten  sedge. 

Like  a  hurt  thing  that  will  not  die 
The  sea  lay  moaning;  waifs  of  weed 

Strove  thro'  the  water  painfully 
Or  lay  flat,  like  drenched  hair  indeed, 

Rolled  over  with  the  pebbles,  nigh 
Low  places  where  the  rock-fish  feed. 


101 


SONG  FOR  CHASTELARD 

THOUGH  ye  be  never  so  fair  a  May 
As  Queen  Marie  that  is  so  sweet, 

I  am  so  bounden  in  love's  way 
I  may  not  go  upon  my  feet. 

Though  ye  be  never  so  true  a  thing 
As  Saint  Marie  that  is  so  clean, 

Yet  I  am  so  taken  in  your  loving 
I  wis  ye  be  the  better  queen. 

Though  I  be  never  so  good  in  face 
As  Absalom  that  was  called  fair, 

Give  me  so  much  of  your  least  grace 
As  I  may  kiss  your  neck  and  hair. 

Though  I  be  never  so  wise  a  king 
As  Solomon  that  woned  out  south, 

Do  so  much  for  me,  good  sweeting, 
As  I  may  kiss  upon  your  mouth. 


102 


KING  BAN 


A   FRAGMENT 


THESE  three  held  flight  upon  the  leaning  lands 
At  undern,  past  the  skirt  of  misty  camps 
Sewn  thick  from  Benwick  to  the  outer  march — 
King  Ban,  and,  riding  wrist  by  wrist,  Ellayne, 
And  caught  up  (with  ihis  coloured  swathing- 

bands 
Across  her  arm,  a  hindrance  in  the  reins, 
A  bauble  slipt  between  the  bridle-ties, 
The  three  months'  trouble  that  was  Launcelot. 
For  Claudas  leant  upon  the  land,  and  smote 
This  way  and  that  way,  as  a  pestilence 
Moves  with  vague  patience  in  the  unclean  heat 
This  way  and  that  way;  so  the  Gaulish  war 
Smote,  moving  in  the  marches.    Then  King  Ban 
Shut  in  one  girdled  waist  of  narrow  stones 
His  gold  and  all  his  men,  and  set  on  them 
A  name,  the  name  of  perfect  men  at  need, 
And  over  them  a  seneschal,  the  man 
Most  inward  and  entailed  upon  his  soul, 
That  next  his  will  and  in  his  pulses  moved 
As  the  close  blood  and  purpose  of  his  heart, 
And  laid  the  place  between  his  hands,  and  rode 

103 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

North  to  the  wild  rims  of  distempered  sea 
That,  crossed  to  Logres,  his  face  might  look 

red  [sic] 
The  face  of  Arthur,  and  therein  light  blood 
Even  to  the  eyes  and  to  the  circled  hair 
For  shame  of  failure  in  so  near  a  need, 
Failure  in  service  of  so  near  a  man. 
Because  that  time  King  Arthur  would  not  ride, 
But  lay  and  let  his  hands  weaken  to  white 
Among  the  stray  gold  of  a  lady's  head. 
His  hands  unwedded:  neither  could  bring  help 
To  Ban  that  helped  to  rend  his  land  for  him 
From  the  steel  wrist  of  spoilers,  but  the  time 
A  sleep  like  yellow  mould  had  overgrown, 
A  pleasure  sweet  and  sick  as  marsh-flowers. 
Therefore  about  his  marches  rode  King  Ban 
With  eyes  that  fell  between  his  hands  to  count 
The  golden  inches  of  the  saddle-rim, 
Strange  with  rare  stones;  and  in  his  face  there 

rose 
A  doubt  that  burnt  it  with  red  pain  and  fear 
All  over  it,  and  plucked  upon  his  heart, 
The  old  weak  heart  that  loss  had  eaten  through, 
Remembering  how  the  seneschal  went  back 
At  coming  out  from  Claudas  in  his  tent; 
And  how  they  bound  together,  chin  by  chin, 
Whispered  and  wagged,  and  made  lean  room  for 

words, 
And  a  sharp  mutter  fed  the  ears  of  them. 

104 


KING  BAN 

And  he  went  in  and  set  no  thought  thereon 
To  waste ;  fear  had  not  heart  to  fear  indeed, 
The  king  being  old,  since  any  fear  in  such 
Is  as  a  wound  upon  the  fleshly  sense 
That  drains  a  parcel  of  his  time  thereout, 
Therefore  he  would  not  fear  that  as  it  fell 
This  thing  should  fall.     For  Claudas  the  keen 

thief 
For  some  thin  rounds  and  wretched  stamps  of 

gold 
Had  bought  the  tower  and  men  and  seneschal, 
Body  and  breath  and  blood,  yea,  soul  and  shame. 
They  knew  not  this,  at  halt  upon  a  hill. 
Only  surmise  was  dull  upon  the  sense 
And  thin  conjecture  sickened  in  the  speech; 
So  they  fell  silent,  riding  in  the  hills. 
There  on  a  little  terrace  the  good  king 
Reined,  and  looked  out.     Far  back  the  white 

lands  lay; 
The  wind  went  in  them  like  a  broken  man, 
Lamely;  the  mist  had  set  a  bitter  lip 
To  the  rimmed  river,  and  the  moon  burnt  blank. 
But  outward  from  the  castle  of  King  Ban 
There  blew  a  sound  of  trouble,  and  there  clomb 
A  fire  that  thrust  an  arm  across  the  air, 
Shook   a  rent   skirt    of    dragging   flame,    and 

blanched 
The  grey  flats  to  such  cruel  white  as  shone 
Iron  against  the  shadow  of  the  sky 

105 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Blurred  out  with  its  blind  stars;  for  as  the  sea 
Gathers  to  lengthen  a  bleached  edge  of  foam 
Whole  weights  of  windy  water,  and  the  green 
Brine  flares  and  hisses  as  the  heap  makes  up, 
Till  the  gaunt  wave  writhes,  trying  to  breathe, 
Then  turns,  and  all  the  whited  rims  of  steel 
Lean  over,  and  the  hollowed  round  roars  in 
And  smites  the  pebble  forward  in  the  mud, 
And  grinds  the  shingle  in  cool  whirls  of  white, 
Clashed  through  and  crossed  with  blank  assault 

of  foam, 
Filled  with  hard  thunder  and  drenched  dregs  of 

sand — 
So  leant  and  leapt  the  many-mouthed  fire, 
So  curled  upon  the  walls,  dipt,  crawled,  smote, 

clung, 
Caught  like  a  beast  that  catches  on  the  flesh, 
Waxed  hoar  with  sick  default,  shivered  across, 
Choked  out,  a  snake  unfed. 

Thereat  King  Ban 
Trembled  for  pain  in  all  his  blood,  and  death 
Under  the  heart  caught  him  and  made  his  breath 
Wince,  as  a  worm  does,  wounded  in  the  head; 
And  fear  began  upon  his  flesh,  and  shook 
The  chaste  and  inly  sufferance  of  it 
Almost  to  ruin;  a  small  fire  and  keen 
Eating  in  muscle  and  nerve  and  hinge  of  joint 
Perilous  way;  so  bitter  was  the  blow 
Made  on  his  sense  by  treason  and  sharp  loss. 

1 06 


KING  BAN 

Then  he  fell  weeping  tears,  with  blood  in  them, 
Like  that  red  sweat  that  stained  Gethsemane 
With  witness,  when  the  deadly  kiss  had  put 
Shame  on  the  mouth  of  Judas;  and  he  cried, 
Crying  on  God,  and  made  out  words  and  said: 
Fair  lord,  sweet  lord,  most  pleasant  to  all  men, 
To  me  so  pleasant  in  clean  days  of  mine 
That  now  are  rained  upon  with  heavy  rain, 
Soiled  with  grey  grime  and  with  the  dusty  years, 
Because  in  all  those  tourneys  and  hot  things 
I  had  to  do  with,  in  all  riding  times 
And  noise  of  work,  and  on  smooth  holidays 
Sitting  to  see  the  smiting  of  hard  spears, 
And  spur-smiting  of  steeds  and  wrath  of  men, 
And  gracious  measure  of  the  rounded  game, 
I  held  you  in  true  honour  and  kept  white 
The  hands  of  my  allegiance  as  a  maid's, 
Being  whole  of  faith  and  perfect  in  the  will. 
Therefore  I  pray  you,  O  God  marvellous, 
See  me  how  I  am  stricken  among  men, 
And  how  the  lip  I  fed  with  plenteousness 
And  cooled  with  wine  of  liberal  courtesy 
Turns  a  snake's  life  to  poison  me  and  clings — 


107 


THE  WHITE  MAID'S  WOOING 


"How  will  you  woo  her, 
This  white  maid  of  thine? 

With  breaking  of  wastel, 
Or  pouring  of  wine?" 

Not  with  pouring  of  cups 
Or  with  breaking  of  bread; 

But  with  wood  that  is  cloven, 
And  wine  that  is  red. 

With  rings  will  I  woo  her, 
With  chains  will  I  wed ; 

With  ships  that  are  broken, 
With  blood  that  is  shed. 

Not  with  gold  for  a  ring, 
Nor  writh  kisses  on  lips, 

But  with  slaying  of  sailors 
And  breaking  of  ships. 

"And  how  will  you  tame  her, 
This  mad  maid  of  thine? 

With  kisses  for  seal, 

Or  with  gold  for  a  sign?'' 
108 


THE  WHITE  MAID'S  WOOING 

With  a  bit  for  the  mouth, 
And  a  ring  for  the  hand; 

With  a  neck-chain  of  foam, 
Or  a  waist-chain  of  sand. 

With  the  wind  for  a  seal, 
And  the  sun  for  a  oign; 

And  so  I  will  wed  her, 
This  white  wife  of  mine. 


109 


LANDOR   AT   FLORENCE 

The  stateliest  singing  mouth  that  speaks  our 

tongue, 

The  lordliest,  and  the  brow  of  loftiest  leaf 

Worn  after  the  great  fashion  close  and  brief, 
Sounds   and   shines   yet;    to   whom   all   braids 

belong 
Of  plaited  laurel  that  no  weathers  wrong, 

All  increase  of  the  spring  and  of  the  sheaf, 

All  high  delight  and  godliness  of  grief, 
All  bloom  and  fume  of  summer  and  of  song. 
The  years  are  of  his  household;  Fate  and  Fame 

Observe  him;  and  the  things  of  pestilence 
Die  out  of  fear,  that  could  not  die  of  shame, 

Before  his  heel  he  set  on  their  offence: 
Time's  hand  shall  hoard  the  gold  of  such  a  name 

When  death  has  blown  the  dust  of  base  men 

thence. 

1864. 


no 


SONNET 

Ah,  face  and  hands  and  body  beautiful, 

Fair  tender  body,  for  my  body's  sake 

Are  you  made  faultless  without  stain  or  break. 
Locks  close  as  weed  in  river-water  cool, 
A  purer  throat  and  softer  than  white  wool, 

Eyes  where  sleep  always  seems  about  to  wake. 

No  dead  man's  flesh  but  feels  the  strong  sweet 

ache, 
And  that  sharp  amorous  watch  the  years  annul, 
If  his  grave's  grass  have  felt  you  anywhere. 

Rain  and  the  summer  shadow  of  the  rain 
Are  not  so  gentle  to  the  generous  year 

As  your  soft  rapid  kisses  are  to  men, 
Felt  here  about  my  face,  yea  here  and  here, 

Caught  on   my  lips   and  thrown  you   back 

again. 


in 


GENTLE  SPRING 

WRITTEN  FOR  A  PICTURE  BY  FREDERICK  SANDYS 

O  VIRGIN  Mother!  of  gentle  days  and  nights, 
Spring  of  fresh  buds  and  spring  of  soft  delights, 
Come,  with  lips  kissed  of  many  an   amorous 

hour, 
Come,  with  hands  heavy  from  the  fervent  flower, 
The  fleet  first  flower  that  feels  the  wind  and 

sighs, 
The  tenderer  leaf  that  draws  the  sun  and  dies; 
Light  butterflies  like  flowers  alive  in  the  air 
Circling  and  crowning  thy  delicious  hair, 
And  many  a  fruitful  flower  and  floral  fruit 
Born  of  thy  breath  and  fragrant  from  thy  foot. 
Thee,  Mother,  all  things  born  desire,  and  thee 
Earth  and  the  fruitless  hollows  of  the  sea 
Praise,  and  thy  tender  winds  of  ungrown  wing 
Fill  heaven  with  murmurs  of  the  sudden  spring. 

1865. 


112 


CONSTANCE  AND  FREDERICK 

Fred.    Why  should  it  hurt  you  that  he  goes 

to  Rome? 
Now  I  am  glad ;  I  can  sit  close  to  you, 
Feel  my  hand  put  away  and  lost  in  yours, 
And  the  sweet  smell  of  your  long  knotted  hair 
Laid  on  my  face  and  mouth ;  can  kiss  you  too 
And  not  be  smitten;  that  is  good  for  me. 

Con.    Poor  child,  I  love  you;  yea,  keep  close 

by  me 
So  am  I  safe.    Ah !  yet  no  woman  here 
Would  pity;  keep  you  closer  to  me,  boy  I 
Fred.    Is  not  this  well?  now  I  can  touch  your 

sleeve, 
Count  over  the  thick  rings  and  fair  round  stones 
About  your  neck  and  forehead,  and  on  mine 
Lay  down  the  soft  palm  of  your  smooth  long 

hand; 
If  I  were  as  my  father  I  would  reach 
Both  hands  up — so — to  bow  your  head  quite 

down, 
Pulled  by  the  hair  each  side,  till  I  could  touch 
The  rows  of  gracious  pearl  that  part  your  hair. 
Then  I  would  kiss  you,  your  lips  would  move  to 

cry 

ii3 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 


And  I  would  make  them  quiet;  ah!  but  now 
I  cannot  reach  your  lips — not  so!  alas, 
And  then  they  shiver  and  curl  sideways,  see, 
And  your  eyes  cry  too. 

Con.  There — sit  gravelier  now! 

Nay,  child,  you  twist  my  finger  in  the  ring. 

Fred.    I  wonder  if  God  means  to  leave  us  so? 
If  he  forget  us,  and  my  father  die, 
How  well   that  were   for  you!   dear  mother, 

think 
How  we  would  praise  him! 

Con.  Child,  no  words  of  it, 

Let  us  forget  him.    Come,  I'll  spoil  a  tale, 
With  idle  remembrance.    There  was  a  king  once 
Lived  where  the  trees  are  great  and  green,  with 

leaves 
The  white  midwinter  keeps  alive;  there  grew 
All  red  fruit  and  all  flowers  full  of  gold 
In  the  broad  low  grasses:  from  the  poppy-root 
Came  lilies,  and  from  lily-stems  there  clomb 
Tall  roses,  with  close  petals,  and  the  stalk 
Was  heavy  gold,  solid  and  smooth,  the  wind 
Was  full  of  soft  rain  gathered  in  the  dusk 
That  fell  with  no  clouds  near;  so  this  king 
Grew  past  a  child. 

Fred.  Taller  than  I?  so  tall? 

Con.     Ay,  where  the  sun  divides  the  olive- 
shade; 

And  on  his  head Rise,  here  are  men,  I  think. 

114 


CONSTANCE  AND  FREDERICK 

Enter  Massimo  and  Lucrezia. 

Mas.     What  do  these  here?    Hrsh!  now, 

Madam,  I  pray  you, 
Though  we  put  on  some  outer  show  of  man, 
Think  us  no  more  than  beast:    What  certainty 

is  there 
Or  in  our  faces,  in  our  brows'  mould,  or 
In  the  clear  shape  and  colour  of  our  speech, 
Sets  this  word  man  upon  us?    We,  as  you, 
Are  the  king's  ware,  his  good  necessities; 
(I'll  teach  you  shortly  what  this  babble  means, 
Fear  we  not  there)  good  chattels  of  his  use 
For  one  to  handle;  I  beseech  you,  let  not 
The  outside  of  our  speech  condemn  us ;  else 
Had  we  kept  mouth  shut  ever. 

Con.  My  fair  lord, 

I  know  not  what  ungracious  day  of  mine 
Hath  given  you  tongue  against  me. 

Fred.  What  says  he,  mother? 

May  I  not  kill  him?  tho'  he  speaks  so  high, 
This  is  no  father:  I  may  kill  him  then? 

Con.    Hush,  boy!  this  insolence  has  changed 

you.     Sir, 
I  pray  you  let  me  understand;  you  said 
(I  think)  and  there  was  a  secret  in  your  speech 
I  must  unriddle.    Lady  Lucrezia, 
What  madness  hurts  our  friend?  he  speaks  awry 
With  a  most  broken  action. 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Fred.  Speak,  sir:  I 

Stand  for  my  mother. 

Mas.  So  you  have  set  him  words 

To  work  out,  to  spell  over,  each  as  loud 
As  any  threat  the  mouth  makes  like  a  blow? 
Ay,  must  his  father  praise  him  too? 

Luc.  My  lord, 

It  seems  that  change  can  make  the  face  of  hope 
Grey  as  his  own  thin  hair;  I  loved  you  well, 
Put  honour  on  you,  which  you  seemed  to  wear 
With  natural  apprehension  and  keen  grace 
Past  blame  of  any,  over  praise  of  me: 
Now  either  my  hurt  sense  is  sick  to  death, 
Or  I  conceive  such  meaning  in  your  talk 
As  makes  me  faint  with  shame;  I  would  fain  be 

angry; 
But  shame  has  left  me  bare  of  even  will 
To  seem  so  angry,  and  to  say  this  out 
With  your  set  eyes  so  fast  upon  my  face 
Grows  like  shame  to  me. 

Mas.  Nathless  I  believe 

Since  you  shook  hands  with  shame's  last  mes- 
senger 
And  felt  her  hand's  mark  hot  long  your  cheek, 
Some  years  have  made  it  whiter. 

Luc.  Pardon  me! 

I  know  not,  Madam,  what  he  speaks. 

Mas.  Nor  you? 

I  spoke  to  Tancred's  kinswoman,  the  queen 

116 


CONSTANCE  AND  FREDERICK 

Who  wears  the  blood  of  holy  centuries 

In  her   fair  palms   and   forehead;   their  blue 

curves 
Royally  written ;  nay  this  boy's  soft  lip 
So  red  and  fair  by  that  imperial  sign, 
By  your  most  gracious  warrant;  else  I'll  say 
The  name  you  had  was  bastarded,  and  you 
Some  wicked  season's  error. 

Luc.  Are  you  mad? 

See,  her  mouth  trembles,  tears  drop  over  it, 
Her  brows  move:  now,  be  silent! 

Mas.  Then  I'll  end! 

I  held  this  lady  so  past  service,  yea 
Past  man's  approval  or  the  keenest  feet 
Of  his  obedience:    You're  my  kinswoman, 
And  the  dear  honour  that  I  have  of  you 
Hath  borne  some  witness;  now  for  her,  I'll  say 
I  would  forget  you,  and  unclothe  my  soul 
Of  its  strong  reverence  and  opinion 
That  makes  you  to  me  as  the  music  is 
To  the  dead  eithern  there,  as  the  live  smell 
To  some  quick  flower  midways  the  lily-row. 
So  I  hold  you — well,  I'd  forget  all  this 
To  serve  her;  that  was  Lady  Constance  here, 
When  she  was  no  mere  German  ornament 
Scrawled  broad  with  some  gold  flourishes  at  top 
Above  some  Austrian  document  to  prove 
Our  lord  a  liar,  some  stale  letter,  says 
To  be  just  fingered  by  Pope  Celestin 

117 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Before  he  tears  it,  tears  her  name  and  all, 
No  witness  of  that  devil's  assurance  made 
Between  our  masters,  that  strong  bond  that  holds 
Treason  each  side — no  empress  of  this  mould, 
But  just  the  lady  we  had  just  to  serve, 
Live  by  or  die  for — oh,  not  when  she  bade 
But  when  God  thought  she  might  have  need  of 

him 
Tancred's  own  blood,  the  king's  own  very  flesh 
Made  for  our  sakes  so  beautiful  and  weak 
That  we  might  even  help  God  by  serving  her — 
The  maiden  face  more  gracious  than  was  need 
To  keep  it  perfect — yea,  more  love  in  the  lip 
Than  what  sufficed  us  to  accredit  her 
As  only  Constance,  more  repose  i'  the  eyes 
Than  had  alone  constrained  her  worship  out — 
For  certes  no  man  ever  wondered  much 
Why  she  wants  worship!  (to  complete  her,  say) 
And  what  were  love's  work?  yea,  thus  verily 
God  wrought  her  with  good  cunning;  and  our 

part 
Was  to  be  patient — some  day  this  might  end, 
She  might  pray  God  to  find  us  room,  suppose — 
So  many  as  we  were,  and  such  poor  blood 
As  this  might  wash  her  floored  palace  clean — 
I  talk  that  old  way!    See  how  pale  she  is, 
Her  eyes  more  narrow,  and  with  shallow  lights 
Filling  them,  broken  hints  of  purposes, 
How  pain  has  worn  the  golden  secret  out 

118 


CONSTANCE  AND  FREDERICK 

Some  strange  grand  language  wrote  upon  her 

face. 
All  this  more  wasted  than  a  flame  tiiat  fails 
On  sick  lamp  lit  at  daybreak — more  rebuked, 
Chastened  and  beaten  by  the  imperious  time, 
Than  my  words  last  year  spoken! 

Con.                                             Oh,  not  so: 
Not  the  soul — let  the  body  wear  so  thin 
Each  feature  shows  of  it  by  this 

Mas.  I  said 

No  man's  change  that  we  are  ruled  by  does  much 

harm, 
God  overlines  it,  shall  not  the  queen  live? 
But  this  so  new  and  bitter  thing  to  taste 
That  poisons  me — this  curse  that  changes  her — 
I  saw  not  ever. 

Con.  This — 

Mas.  That  you  should  turn 

A  woman  none  of  those  men  pay  to  find 
The  costliness  of  such  a  golden  sin 
As  loves  by  hire  and  loves  not — no  such  thing 
Would  praise  or  pity,  would  despise  or  hate — 
A  shame  familiar  on  the  pander's  lip, 
Smiled  out  by  courtiers  from  their  slippery  mouth, 
Laughed  over,  chattered  over  by  the  page 
A  groom  might  spit  on — handled,  breathed  upon 
By  the  spent  breath  in  his  mid  office  worn 
As  garb  and  badge  of  his  necessity 
On  one  permitted  shoulder,  by  this  king  .  ..,  . 

119 


POPE  CELESTIN  AND  GIORDANO 

Gio.    These  matters  are  but  shadows  of  the 

truth, 
Mean  indications ;  time  will  shew,  my  lord, 
Our  wrong  lies  deeper. 

Cel.  Proofs — ay,  proofs  you  say — 

Let  me  see  that,  sir:     I'll  believe  your  proof: 
What  must  I  do?  what  stirs  you  up  to  give 
This  dead  dissension  teeth  to  bite  again? 
And  I  am  old;  my  body  is  no  wall 
For  you  to  shoot  behind  at  emperors: 
Ay,  the  keen  spirit  eats  the  flesh  like  fire, 
It's  mere  slow  poison,  this  my  dignity, 
Consumes  me;  ah,  you're  just  a  man,  my  Count, 
Cannot  conceive  how  God's  will  overcomes, 
How  the  Church  bears  one's  very  soul  to  hold 
And  stoops  the  shoulders;  then,  we're  set  to 

pray 
Save  you  your  souls,  gather  you  fruit  of  prayer, 
Not  whet  you  fresh  blades  when  blood  mars  the 

old: 
Ah,  what  must  we  do? 

Gio.  But,  your  Holiness 

Imagines  not  we  seek  your  wrong  in  this : 

120 


POPE  CELESTIN  AND  GIORDANO 

Our  words  are  meant  to  save  God's  Church  and 

you 
From  this  man's  red  and  insolent  hands,   put 

forth 
To  pluck  you  out  of  kingdom,  set  you  up 
But  as  a  dead  thing,  as  a  monument 
That  boys  may  spit  at.  Sir,  if  you  speak  of  peace, 
Best  cover  up  the  face  of  you  and  weep 
Till  he  be  here:  it  may  be  he  will  say 
"Throw  me  that  hoar  scalp  to  the  dogs,"  or  else 
"Nay,  find  him  some  low  cell  not  overbroad 
And  slip  the  chain's  knot  close  enough  to  press 
The  lean  old  wrist  and  elbow:"  this  may  be. 
Cel.    This!    Oh,  God  help  me,  but  how  cold 

it  gets ! 
Why — but  I  think,  by  Venus,  it's  no  spring 
But  winter  comes  to  pinch  us  by  the  chin. 
— Are  not  we  vicar  of  the  Son  of  God? 
Are  not  we  lord  of  you  and  him?    Ha,  see 
How  the  flames  twinkle  when  my  hand  goes  up! 
The  fingers  are  but  lank  as  sprays  of  wood 
In  the  late  snow-time,  eh,  or  blades  embrowned 
On    some   lean    field    this    bitter    March — see, 

Count, 
This  grey  hair  comes  on  all!  ay,  well  I  know 
The  blessed  tonsure  came  on  it  before — 
Ay,  thin  scalp,  said  you!  yea,  but,  sir,  no  Count 
Keeps  always  dark  hair,  not  so  thick  as  yours, 
God  help  it! 

121 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Gio.  I  beseech  your  Holiness 

Even  by  the  sweet  blood  of  your  Lord  the  Christ, 
Believe  me  this  is  perilous  to  say: 
You  talk  of  things  that  either  you  must  kill 
Or  they  will  smite  you  on  the  sacred  face, 
Discredit  you,  despoil  the  chosen  gold 
On  the  dear  bosom  of  this  mother  Church, 
Uncover 

Cel.  Ah,  sir,  tell  me  not  of  these! 

An  old  man — ere  the  blessed  knife  had  shorn 
One  black  top  curl,  I  might  have  answered  you; 
I  was  too  young — eh  well,  suppose  men  talk, 
What  matter?  there's  a  lie  in  each  man's  mouth. 
Yea  "dixi"  said  God's  blessed  Psalmist  once 
"Dixi,"  that's  where  the  choir  breaks  out  full 

breath, 
Makes  half  the  sweet  smoke  ripple  graciously, 
Praising  God's  mother  in  delicious  wise. 
Ah,  sir,  be  very  tender  of  such  words; 
The  trampled  flesh  is  like  a  hurt  snake's  head 
Most  quick  to  peer  up  sharply — ah,  sir,  then 
It  stings  the  blood  thro',  verily! 

Gio.  My  lord — 

Cel.    Ay,  then  begins  to  stir  and  strike  and 

more 
God  keep  us — worries  as  with  angry  teeth, 
This  sensual  serpent  of  the  evil  flesh, 
With  its  bruised  head  alive  and  such  keen  eyes 
And  such  a  large  mouth  with  lean  lips  astir. 

122 


POPE  CELESTIN  AND  GIORDANO 

Ah,  sir,  be  very  tender  of  the  flesh' 

Gold  said  you,  gold?  there  was  hair  once  she  had 

Most  like  a  Byzant  painter  makes 

For  some  saint's  face — alas,  the  hair  she  had 

Which  now  red  worms  have  eaten  to  the  roots! 

Ah,  flesh  is  weaker  than  a  rich  man's  breath, 

An  old  man's  hand  with  fingers  shut  like  these — 

The   mouth   she   had   which   years   ago   black 

earth 
Filled  to  the  lips  that  used  to  kiss  me  once, 
Which  Mary  pardon!  so  shall  I  too  die 
And  have  my  body  eaten  of  cold  worms 
As  Herod — so  Christ  pardon  me  the  sin! 
Gold  said  you,  on  her  bosom?  ah,  she  wore 
An  armlet  of  thin  gold,  and  on  her  neck 
There  was  a  plait  she  had  of  threaded  yellow 

silk— 
And  all  this  has  been  done  with  many  years, 
And  will  not  come  again.    I  grow  so  old, 
So  old  and  sick,  alas  the  evil  flesh! 

Gio.    I  told  your  Holiness  of  Henry's  aim, 
His  aim  assured  and  evident,  to  seize 
The  Church  lands  and  the  Church's  wealth,  if 

you 
Confirm  not,  sir,  his  tyrannous  dignity 
By  the  mere  seal  of  strong  permission:  think 
I  do  beseech  you  by  Queen  Mary's  might, 
What  shame,  what  utter  peril  there  should  be 
If  this  thing  fall!    That  henceforth  one  may  say 

123 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Trust  in  the   Church  and  trust,   and   find   no 

place 
Where  truth  makes  head  against  the  violent 

world — 
If  you  do  this :  yea,  men  will  violate 
Things  hidden  with  securest  insolence; 
So  that  between  the  slayer's  bearded  mouth 
And  the  chaste  lip  of  reverence  there  will  be 
Even  such  communion  as  the  traitor's  kiss, 
A  present  lie  for  ever. 

Cel.  Ay,  woe's  me, 

A  lie  to  say — a  very  bitter  lie 
To  take  upon  the  tongue  we  pray  withal. 
Alas,  sir,  while  God  keeps  us  scant  of  grace, 
The  body  and  the  body's  frail  thin  sense 
Is  liable  to  most  dangerous  attributes, 
Is  vulnerable  to  any  sword  of  sins, 
To  any  craft  of  Satan's;  we  should  think 
We  are  made  of  most  frail  body  and  weak  soul 
Mere  tools  for  diabolic  usages, 
For  ministration  of  man's  enemy 
Whom  God  confound!  nathless  it  hath  been  kept 
I  say,  sir,  there  be  men  have  seldom  sinned 
Since  the  pure  vow  made  clean  their  fleshly  lips : 
To  God  ascribe  the  praise,  my  son,  not  me; 
Yea,  be  it  written  for  me  in  God's  book 
What  have  I  done — whereof  I  take  but  blame 
Seeing  there  is  no  profit  in  me,  none, 
Nor  in  my  service:  verily  I  think 

124 


POPE  CELESTIN  AND  GIORDANO 

The  keeper  of  God's  house  is  more  than  I, 
Who  have  but  served  him  these  hoar  eighty 

years 
With  barren  service. 

Gio.  (Ay,  past  help  of  mine!) 

I  pray  you  then,  my  lord,  that  of  your  grace 
I  may  speak  with  the  Cardinal  Orsino 
As  in  your  name;  he  loves  me  well,  there's  none 
Of  more  swift  judgment  and  deliberate  act, 
Nor  who  serves  justice  better. 

Cel.  Yea,  my  lord, 

You  shall  have  letters  to  the  cardinal; 
A  good  man,  who  hath  slain  the  flesh  of  sin — 
A  good  man,  certainly  no  son  of  Christ 
Hath  done  more  service,  is  more  ripe  for  grace. 
He  hath  looked  seldom  on  the  evil  thing 
To  hunger  for  it  in  the  bond  of  lust 
Or  violence  of  the  keen  iniquitous  will: 
I'll  send  him  letters — yea,  a  man  of  grace, 
A  pillar  fairly  carven  of  wrought  stone 
All  builded  without  hammer,  clean  and  fair 
To  do  God  honour,  and  accredit  us 
The  builder  of  him:  for  his  judgment,  sir, 
That  shall  you  test,  but  all  grow  old  in  time. 
Ay,  soon  or  late  God  fashions  us  anew 
By  some  good  patterns ;  so  shall  all  get  made 
Fit  to  be  welded  stone  by  shapen  stone 
Into  the  marvellous  Jerusalem  wall 
That  shall  be  builded.    A  good  man,  I  said, 

125 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

But  somewhat  older  than  he  was,  meseems, 
That  shall  you  notice;  let  him  not  suspect 
That  I  misdoubt  him,  sir;  he  hath  been  wise 
Fulfilled  of  grace  and  wisdom:  but  our  time 
Is  as  a  day — as  half  a  day  with  God : 
Yea,  as  a  watch  that  passeth  in  the  night 
And  is  not  honoured.    Come,  sir,  you  shall  go 
I  pray  God  prosper  you,  and  overcome 
The  evil  of  your  body,  by  his  grace. 
Also  the  Cardinal,  that  he  may  speak 
Things  worthy,  which  shall  worthily  be  heard 
For  without  wisdom  are  we  as  the  grass 
Which  the  sun  withers:  yea,  our  sojourn  here 
Is  as  a  watch  that  passeth  in  the  night. 


126 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

Lord,  is  it  daytime  or  night? 

Failure,  Lord,  or  success? 
Speak  to  us,  answer  us,  thou : 
Surely  the  light  of  thy  brow 
Gave  us,  giveth  us,  light, 
Dark  be  the  season  or  bright, 

Strong  to  support  or  suppress. 

Thou,  with  eyes  to  the  east, 

Beautiful,  vigilant  eyes; 
Father,  Comforter,  Chief, 
Joy  be  it  with  us  or  grief, 
Season  of  funeral  or  feast, 
Careful  of  thine,  of  thy  least, 

Careful  who  lives  and  who  dies. 

Soul  and  Spirit  of  all, 

Keeping  the  watch  of  the  world, 
All  through  the  night-watches,  there 
Gazing  through  turbulent  air 
Standest;  how  shall  we  fall? 
What  should  afflict  or  appal, 
Though  the  streamers  of  storm  be  un- 
furled? 

127 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

All  the  noise  of  the  night, 

All  the  thunder  of  things, 
All  the  terrors  be  hurled 
Of  the  blind  brute-force  of  the  world, 
All  the  weight  of  the  fight, 
All  men's  violent  might, 

All  the  confluence  of  Kings; 

Rouse  all  earth  against  us, 

Hurl  all  heaven  against  thee? 

Though  it  be  thus,  though  it  were, 

Speak  to  us,  if  thou  be  there, 

Save,  tho'  indeed  it  be  thus 

Then  that  the  dolorous 

Stream  sweeps  off  to  the  sea. 

Lift  up  heads  that  are  hidden, 

Strengthen  hearts  that  are  faint; 
Lighten  on  eyes  that  are  blind 
To  the  poor  of  thy  kind, 
Courage  their  lives  over-ridden, 
Smitten  how  sorely  and  chidden 
Sharply  with  reins  of  restraint. 

Peace,  it  may  be  he  will  say, 

Somewhat,  if  yet  ye  will  hear 
Some  great  word  of  a  chief 
Ask  not  of  joy,  neither  grief, 
128 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

Ask  nothing  more  of  the  day, 
Not  whether  night  be  away, 
Not  whether  comfort  be  near. 

Seek  not  after  a  token ; 

Ask  not  what  of  the  night, 
Nor  what  the  end  of  it  brings : 
Seek  after  none  of  these  things. 
What  though  nothing  were  spoken, 
Nothing,  though  all  we  were  broken, 

Shewn  as  seen  of  the  light? 

What  if  the  morning  awake 

Never  of  us  to  be  seen? 
Yet,  if  we  die,  if  we  live, 
That  which  we  have  will  we  give, 
That  which  is  with  us  we  take, 
Borne  in  our  hands  for  her  sake 

Who  shall  be  and  is  and  hath  been. 

She  though  we  die  we  shall  find 
Surely,  though  far  she  be  fled, 
Nay,  if  we  find  not  at  last, 
We,  though  we  die  and  go  past, 
Yet  shall  we  leave  her  behind, 
Leave  to  the  sons  of  our  kind 
Men  that  come  after  us  dead. 

These  shall  say  of  us  then; 
"Freedom  they  had  not  as  we, 
129 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Yet  were  none  of  them  slaves; 
Free  they  lie  in  their  graves, 
Our  fathers,  the  ancient  of  men, 
Souls  that  awake  not  again 
Free,  as  we  living  wrere  free." 

Then,  if  remembrance  remain, 
Shall  we  not  seeing  have  said 

Out  of  the  place  where  we  lie 

Hearing,  rejoice  and  reply; 

Men  of  a  world  without  stain 

Sons  of  men  that  in  vain 
Lie  not  for  love  of  you  dead. 

1867. 


130 


CHANSON  DE  FfiVRIER 

TRESSONS  ma  guirlande 

D'ix  et  de  cypres, 
Bien  belle  est  la  lande, 

Bien  verts  sont  les  pres. 

Faites-moi  ma  biere, 

Mettez-m'y  ce  soir: 
Bien  triste  est  la  terre, 

Le  tombeau  bien  noir. 

Qu'il  aille  aimer  Rose; 

L'amour  lui  sied  bien; 
Elle  a  toute  chose, 

Et  moi  je  n'ai  rien. 

Des  nattes  de  soie 

Qu'on  rehausse  en  tour; 
Des  yeux  pleins  de  joie 

Et  vides  d'amour. 

Quand  son  cou  se  cambre, 
Tous  ses  grands  cheveux 

Cousus  d'or  et  d'ambre 
Tombent  sur  ses  yeux. 

131 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

De  l'Eure  a  la  Sambre, 

On  ne  vit  jamais 
Si  beaux  cheveux  d'ambre, 

Si  beaux  yeux  de  jais. 

Je  n'ai  rien  a  dire; 

J'ai  garde  ma  foi. 
Sa  bouche  sait  rire; 

Je  sais  pleurer,  moi. 

La  lune  etait  belle; 

Mais  le  jour  a  lui. 
Que  nous  voulait-elle 

Quand  j'etais  a  lui? 

Vous  verrez  eclose, 

Quand  mai  le  veut  bien, 
Vous  verrez  la  rose, 

Je  ne  verrai  rien. 

Les  jours  ou  Ton  cueille 

L'hyacinthe  au  pre, 
Et  la  chevrefeuille, 

Moi  je  dormirai. 

Que  dit  la  colombe? 

Vivez,  aimez-vous: 
Bien  douce  est  la  tombe, 

Le  gazon  bien  doux. 
132 


CHANSON  DE  FfiVRIER 

Mais  quand  l'hirondelle 

Chante  aux  champs  de  mai 

Va,  lui  dira-t-elle, 
Tu  fus  bien  aime. 


133 


CHANSON  D'AVRIL 

TRESSEZ  ma  couronne 

Des  fleurs  de  roseau. 
Tu  me  dis:  Sois  bonne, 

Je  te  dis:  Sois  beau. 

Ecoute:  tu  m'aimes, 

La  belle  aux  beaux  yeux; 

Allons  par  nous-memes, 
Allons  deux  a  deux.1 

Nous  irons,  ma  chere, 

Au  fond  du  verger: 
Tu  seras  bergere, 

Je  serai  berger. 

Tais-toi  done,  mignonne, 

II  faut  s'apaiser 
Quand  on  est  si  bonne, 

Si  bonne  a  baiser. 

1  This  line  must  be  a  slip.  "Allons  deux  a  deux"  suggests 
a  procession  of  couples,  not  a  single  pair.  The  couplet  is 
perhaps  the  least  French  in  the  poem. — [E.  G.] 

134 


CHANSON  D'AVRIL 

La  roseau  qui  penche 

Est  moins  doux,  moins  frais; 
Moins  belle,  moins  blanche, 

La  rose  des  pres. 

Que  dit  l'hirondelle? 

Le  jour  va  perir: 
Aimons-nous,  ma  belle, 

Avant  de  mourir. 

Aimons-nous,  ma  mie: 

Viens,  ecoute,  vois; 
Songe  que  la  vie 

Ne  vient  qu'une  fois. 

Veux-tu  que  je  meure, 
Vraiment,  sans  amour? 

Nous  vivons  une  heure 
Nous  mourrons  un  jour. 


*3S 


THAW 


A   FRAGMENT 


THIS  winter's  white  is  no  more  strong  than  snow 
Against  the  red  of  spring  in  buds  and  beams, 
In  sun  and  shoot  refilled  with  fluent  fire 
And  heart  of  lusty  labour  and  large  life. 
Already  the  lean  hoar-frost  is  deflowered 
Of  half  its  breathless  blossom  of  thin  leaves 
Wrought  false  on  glass,  and  that  glass  not  so 

frail ; 
Already  the  split  ice  yearns,  and  now  the  thaw 
Begins  on  every  river  and  unsealed  well ; 
The  snow  shudders  against  the  sun,  the  hills 
Warm  them  with  morning.     What  shall  noon 

do  next? 
1871. 


136 


BALLAD     OF    THE     FAIR     HELMET- 
MAKER  TO  THE  GIRLS  OF  JOY 

FROM  VILLON 

Now  think  hereof,  fair  Gloveress, 
That  wast  my  scholar  constantly, 

And  you  too,  Blanche  the  Cobbleress, 
'Tis  time  to  walk  now  warily, 
Take  right  and  left;  I  pray  you,  see 

Ye  spare  no  man  in  any  place; 
For  old  girls  keep  no  currency, 

No  more  than  coin  cried  down  for  base. 

And  you,  my  dainty  Flesheress, 

So  light  in  dance  of  heel  and  knee, 
And  Winifred  the  Weaveress, 

Despise  not  low  your  master  free; 

Ye  too  must  shut  up  shop,  all  ye 
When  ye  wax  old  and  bleak  of  face; 

Of  no  more  use  than  old  priests  be, 
No  more  than  coin  cried  down  for  base. 

Take  heed  too,  Joan  the  Hatteress, 
That  no  fiend  lime  your  liberty; 

No  more,  fair  Kate,  the  Spurrieress, 
Bid  men  go  hang  or  pack  to  sea; 
*37 


POSTHUMOUS    POEMS 

For  whoso  lacks  her  beauty,  she 

Gets  scorn  of  them,  and  no  good  grace, 

Foul  age  takes  no  man's  love  for  fee, 
No  more  than  coin  cried  down  for  base. 

Girls,  hearken  and  give  heed  to  me, 
Why  thus  I  wail  and  weep  my  case 

'Tis  that  I  find  no  remedy, 

No  more  than  coin  cried  down  for  base. 


1872. 


138 


RECOLLECTIONS 

YEARS  have  sped  from  us  under  the  sun 
Through  blossom  and  snow-tides  twenty-one, 
Since  first  your  hand  as  a  friend's  was  mine, 
In  a  season  whose  days  are  yet  honey  and  wine 
To  the  pale  close  lips  of  Remembrance,  shed 
By  the  cupbearer  Love  for  desire  of  the  dead: 
And  the  weeds  I  send  you  may  half  seem  flowers 
In  eyes  that  were  lit  by  the  light  of  its  hours. 
For  the  life  (if  at  all  there  be  life)  in  them  grew 
From  the  sun  then  risen  on  a  young  day's  dew, 
When  ever  in  August  holiday  times 
I  rode  or  swam  through  a  rapture  of  rhymes, 
Over  heather  and  crag,  and  by  scaur  and  by 

stream, 
Clothed  with  delight  by  the  might  of  a  dream, 
With  the  sweet  sharp  wind  blown  hard  through 

my  hair, 
On  eyes  enkindled  and  head  made  bare, 
Reining  my  rhymes  into  royal  order 
Through    honied    leagues    of    the    northland 

border; 
Or  loosened  a  song  to  seal  for  me 
A  kiss  on  the  clamorous  mouth  of  the  sea. 

139 


POSTHUMOUS    POEMS 

So  swarmed  and  sprang,  as  a  covey  they  start, 
The  song-birds  hatched  of  a  hot  glad  heart, 
With  notes  too  shrill  and  a  windy  joy 
Fluttering  and  firing  the  brain  of  a  boy, 
With  far  keen  echoes  of  painless  pain 
Beating  their  wings  on  his  heart  and  his  brain, 
Till  a  life's  whole  reach,  were  it  brief,  were  it 

long, 
Seemed  but  a  field  to  be  sown  with  song. 


The  snow-time  is  melted,  the  flower-time  is  fled, 
That  were  one  to  me  then  for  the  joys  they  shed. 
Joys  in  garland  and  sorrows  in  sheaf, 
Rose-red  pleasure  and  gold-eared  grief, 
Reared  of  the  rays  of  a  mid-noon  sky, 
I  have  gathered  and  housed  them,  worn  and  put 

by, 

These  wild-weed  waifs  with  a  wan  green  bloom 
Found  in  the  grass  of  that  old  year's  tomb, 
Touched  by  the  gleam  of  it,   soiled  with  its 

dust, 
I  well  could  leave  in  the  green  grave's  trust, 
Lightly  could  leave  in  the  light  wind's  care 
Were  all  thoughts  dead  of  the  dead  life  there. 
But  if  some  note  of  its  old  glad  sound 
In  your  ear  should  ring  as  a  dream's  rebound, 
As  a  song,  that  sleep  in  his  ear  keeps  yet, 
Tho'  the  senses  and  soul  rewaking  forget. 

140 


RECOLLECTIONS 

To  none  so  fitly  the  sprays  I  send 

Could  come  as  at  hail  of  the  hand  of  a  friend. 

1878. 

It  is  evident  that  "Recollections"  was  addressed  to  W.  B. 
Scott,  and  was  intended  as  the  Dedication  to  Poems  and 
Ballads:  Second  Series,  1878,  but  was  held  back  when  Swin- 
burne recollected  his  promise  to  dedicate  that  volume  to 
Richard  Burton.  Poems  and  Ballads:  Third  Series,  1889, 
was  inscribed  to  Scott  in  a  poem  which  contains  two  lines 
that  occur  in  "Recollections." — [E.  G.] 


141 


SAIREY  GAMPS  ROUNDEL 

A  BABY'S  thumb,  the  little  duck's, 
Is  fitter  food  than  crust  or  crumb, 
In  baby's  mouth'  when  baby  sucks 

A  baby's  thumb. 
It  gives  delight  to  all  and  some 
Who  wish  the  child  the  best  of  lucks 
That  ever  to  a  child  may  come. 

Its  mien  is  pleasanter  than  Puck's, 
Its  air  triumphant,  placid,  dumb, 
Benignant,  bland,  when  baby  sucks 

A  baby's  thumb. 

Note. — In  sending  this  roundel  to  his  sister  Isabel,  on  the 
19th  of  February,  1883,  Swinburne  accompanied  it  with  a 
note,  of  which  only  a  fragment  is  preserved: — 

"My  dearest  Abba, 

"The  preceding  burst  of  lyric  song,  in  Sairey's  very 
best  handwriting,  was  composed  by  that  lady  a  day  or  two 
ago  while  dredging,  and  wrote  down  faithful  before  break- 
fast; which  she  do  hope  it  may  give  satigef action  to  Mrs. 
Harris — whose  'Eavenly  dispogicion  is  well-beknown — and 
her  family  circle." 


I42 


TO  A  LEEDS  POET 

(J.  W.  INCHBOLD) 

If  far  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  sleep 
A  place  there  be  for  souls  without  a  stain; 

Where  peace  is  perfect  and  delight  more  deep 
Than  seas  or  skies  that  change  and  shine  again, 

There,  none  of  all  unsullied  souls  that  live 
May  hold  a  surer  station,  none  may  lend 

More  light  to  Hope  or  Memory's  lamp,  nor  give 
More  joys  than  Thine  to  those  that  called 

Thee  Friend. 
1888. 


i'43 


SONNET 

High  thought  and  hallowed  love,  by  faith  made 

one, 

Begat  and  bare  the  sweet  strong-hearted  child, 
Art,  nursed  of  nature:  earth  and  sea  and  sun 

Saw  nature  then  more  godlike  as  she  smiled. 
Life  smiled  on  death,  and  death  on  life:  the  soul 

Between  them  shone,  and  soared  above  their 

strife, 
And  left  on  time's  unclosed  and  starry  scroll 

A  sign  that  quickened  death  to  deathless  life. 

Peace  rose  like  Hope,  a  patient  queen,  and  bade 
Hell's  first-born  Faith  abjure  her  creed  and 

die, 
And  Love,  by  life  and  death  made  sad  and  glad, 
Gave   Conscience   ease,   and  watched   Good 

Will  pass  by. 
All  these  make  music  now  of  one  man's  name 
Whose  life  and  age  are  one  with  love  and  fame. 


144 


^OLUS 

LORD  of  days  and  nights  that  hear  thy  word  of 

wintry  warning, 
Wind,  whose  feet  are  set  on  ways  that  none 

may  tread, 
Change  the  nest  wherein  thy  wings  are  fledged 

for  flight  by  morning, 
Change  the  harbour  whence  at  dawn  thy  sails 

are  spread. 

Not  the  dawn,  ere  yet  the  imprisoning  night  has 

half  released  her, 
More  desires  the  sun's  full  face  of  cheer,  than 

we, 
Well  as  yet  we  love  the  strength  of  the  iron- 

tongued  north-easter, 
Yearn  for  wind  to  meet  us  as  we  front  the  sea. 

All  thy  ways  are  good,  O  wind,  and  all  the  world 

should  fester, 
Were   thy   fourfold   godhead    quenched,    or 

stilled  thy  strife: 
Yet  the  waves  and  we  desire  too  long  the  deep 

south-wester, 
Whence     the     waters     quicken     shoreward, 

clothed  with  life. 
H5 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Yet  the  field  not  made  for  ploughing  save  of 

keels  nor  harrowing 
Save  of  storm-winds  lies  unbrightened  by  thy 

breath : 
Banded  broad  with  ruddy  samphire  glow  the 

seabanks  narrowing 
Westward,  while  the  sea  gleams  chill  and  still 

as  death. 

Sharp  and  strange  from  inland  sounds  thy  bit- 
ter note  of  battle, 
Blown  between  grim  skies  and  waters  sullen- 

souled, 
Till  the  baffled  seas  bear  back,  rocks  roar  and 

shingles  rattle, 
Vexed    and    angered    and    anhungered    and 

acold. 

Change  thy  note,  and  give  the  waves  their  will, 

and  all  the  measure, 
Full  and  perfect,  of  the  music  of  their  might, 
Let  it  fill  the  bays  with  thunderous  notes  and 

throbs  of  pleasure, 
Shake  the  shores  with  passion,  sound  at  once 

and  smite. 

Sweet  are  even  the  mild  low  notes  of  wind  and 

sea,  but  sweeter 
Sounds  the  song  whose  choral  wrath  or  raging 

rhyme 
146 


AEOLUS 

Bids  the  shelving  shoals  keep  tune  with  storm's 

imperious  metre, 
Bids  the  rocks  and  reefs  respond  in  rapturous 

chime. 

Sweet  the  lisp  and  lulling  whisper  and  luxurious 

laughter, 
Soft  as  love  or  sleep,  of  waves  whereon  the  sun 
Dreams,  and  dreams  not  of  the  darkling  hours 

before  nor  after, 
Winged  with  cloud  whose  wrath  shall  bid 

love's  day  be  done. 

Yet  shall  darkness  bring  the  awakening  sea  a 

lordlier  lover, 
Clothed   with   strength   more   amorous   and 

more  strenuous  will, 
Whence  her  heart  of  hearts  shall  kindle  and  her 

soul  recover 
Sense  of  love  too  keen  to  lie  for  love's  sake 

still. 

Let  thy  strong  south-western  music  sound,  and 

bid  the  billows 
Brighten,  proud  and  glad  to  feel  thy  scourge 

and  kiss 
Sting  and  soothe  and  sway  them,  bowed  as  aspens 

bend  or  willows, 
Yet  resurgent  still  in  breathless  rage  of  bliss. 

H7 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

All  to-day  the  slow  sleek  ripples  hardly  bear  up 

shoreward, 
Charged  with  sighs  more  light  than  laughter, 

faint  and  fair, 
Like  a  woodland  lake's  weak  wavelets  lightly 

lingering  forward, 
Soft  and  listless  as  the  slumber-stricken  air. 

Be  the  sunshine  bared  or  veiled,  the  sky  superb 

or  shrouded, 
Still  the  waters,  lax  and  languid,  chafed  and 

foiled, 
Keen  and  thwarted,  pale  and  patient,  clothed 

with  fire  or  clouded, 
Vex  their  heart  in  vain,  or  sleep  like  serpents 

coiled. 

Thee  they  look  for,  blind  and  baffled,  wan  with 

wrath  and  weary, 
Blown  for  ever  back  by  winds  that  rock  the 

bird: 
Winds  that  seamews  breast  subdue  the  sea,  and 

bid  the  dreary 
Waves  be  weak  as  hearts  made  sick  with  hope 

deferred. 

Let  thy  clarion  sound  from  westward,  let  the 

south  bear  token 
How  the  glories  of  thy  godhead  sound  and 

shine: 
148 


jEOLUS 

Bid  the  land  rejoice  to  see  the  land-wind's  broad 

wings  broken, 
Bid  the  sea  take  comfort,  bid  the  world  be 

thine. 

Half  the  world  abhors  thee  beating  back  the  sea, 

and  blackening 
Heaven  with  fierce  and  woful  change  of  fluc- 
tuant form: 
All  the  world  acclaims  the  shifting  sail  again, 

and  slackening 
Cloud  by  cloud  the  close-reefed  cordage  of 

the  storm. 

Sweeter  fields  and  brighter  woods  and  lordlier 

hills  than  waken 
Here  at  sunrise  never  hailed  the  sun  and  thee: 
Turn  thee  then,  and  give  them  comfort,  shed 

like  rain  and  shaken 
Far  a  foam  that  laughs  and  leaps  along  the 

sea. 


149 


TO  JAMES  McNEIL  WHISTLER 

Fly  away,  butterfly,  back  to  Japan, 
Tempt  not  a  pinch  at  the  hand  of  a  man, 

And  strive  not  to  sting  ere  you  die  away. 
So  pert  and  so  painted,  so  proud  and  so  pretty, 
To  brush  the  bright  down  from  your  wings  were 

a  pity — 

Fly  away,  butterfly,  fly  away! 

1888. 


150 


THE  BALLADE  OF  TRUTHFUL 
CHARLES 

Charles  Stuart,  the  crownless  king  whose 

hand 

Sways  Erin's  sceptre, — so  they  sing, 
The  bards  of  holy  Liarland — 

Can  give  his  tongue  such  scope  and  swing, 

So  smooth  of  speech,  so  sure  of  sting, 
That  all  who  feel  its  touch  must  dread  it: 

But  now  we  hear  it  witnessing — 
"I  meant  to  cheat  you  when  I  said  it." 

Base  England  felt  his  vocal  brand 

Burn  on  her  blushless  brow,  and  cling 

Like  fire:  though  grave  and  calm  and  bland, 
His  voice  could  touch  so  deep  a  string, 
That  souls  more  pure  than  flowers  in  spring 

Were  moved  to  follow  where  he  led;  it 
Rang  out  so  true :  we  hear  it  ring — 

"I  meant  to  cheat  you  when  I  said  it." 

Convinced,  appalled,  confused,  unmanned, 
We  see,  splashed  black  with  mud  they  fling, 

Parnells  and  Pigotts  lie  or  stand; 
We  see  their  faith,  how  pure  a  thing, 

151 


POSTHUMOUS    POEMS 

Their  cause,  how  past  all  challenging; 
We  read  their  creed,  as  Gladsniff  read  it 

And  worshipped.    Then  a  word  takes  wing- 
"I  meant  to  cheat  you  when  I  said  it." 

Prince  of  pure  patriots,  "blameless  king," 
Is  this  conducive  to  your  credit? 

No  shift,  no  plea  but  this  to  bring? 
"I  meant  to  cheat  you  when  I  said  it" 


152 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1889 

No  Englishman  will  need  to  be  reminded  of  the  date  on 
which  Westminster  Abbey  was  honoured  by  the  funeral  of 
Robert  Browning. — A.C.S. 

All  the  west,  whereon  the  sunset  sealed  the  dead 

year's  glorious  grave 
Fast  with  seals  of  light  and  fire  and  cloud 

that  light  and  fire  illume, 
Glows  at  heart  and  kindles  earth  and  heaven 
with  joyous  blush  and  bloom 
Warm  and  wide  as  life,  and  glad  of  death  which 

only  slays  to  save. 
As  a  tide-reconquered  sea-rock  lies  aflush  with 

the  influent  wave, 
Lies  the  light  aflush  with  darkness,  lapped 

about  with  lustrous  gloom, 
Even  as  life  with  death,  and  time  with  fame, 
and  memory  with  the  tomb 
Where  a  dead  man  hath  for  vassals  Fame  the 

serf  and  Time  the  slave. 
Far  from  earth  as  heaven,  the  steadfast  light 

withdrawn,  superb,  suspense, 
Burns  in  dumb  divine  expansion  of  illimitable 

flower: 

153 


POSTHUMOUS    POEMS 

Moonrise  whets  the  shadows'  edges  keen  as  noon- 
tide :  hence  and  thence 
Glows  the  presence  from  us  passing,  shines 
and  passes  not  the  power. 
Souls  arise  whose  word  remembered  is  as  spirit 

within  the  sense: 
All  the  hours  are  theirs  of  all  the  seasons: 
death  has  but  his  hour. 


154 


THE    CENTENARY    OF    SHELLEY 

Now  a  hundred  years  agone  among  us  came 
Down  from  some  diviner  sphere  of  purer  flame, 
Clothed  in  flesh  to  suffer,  maimed  of  wings  to 

soar, 
One  whom  hate  once  hailed  as  now  love  hails 

by  name, 
Chosen  of  love  as  chosen  of  hatred.     Now  no 

more 
Ear  of  man  may  hear  or  heart  of  man  deplore 
Aught  of  dissonance  or  doubt  that  mars  the 

strain 
Raised  at  last  of  love  where  love  sat  mute  of 

yore. 
Fame  is  less  than  love,  and  loss  is  more  than 

gain, 
When  the  sweetest  souls  and  strongest,  fallen  in 

fight, 
Slain  and  stricken  as  it  seemed  in  base  men's 

sight, 
Rise  and  lighten  on  the  graves  of  foeman  slain, 
Clothed  about  with  love  of  all  men  as  with  light, 
Suns  that  set  not,  stars  that  know  not  day  from 

night. 
1892. 

155 


THE  CONCERT  OF  EUROPE 

Sharp  the  concert  wrought  of  discord  shrills 

the  tune  of  shame  and  death, 
Turk  by  Christian  fenced  and  fostered,  Mecca 

backed  by  Nazareth: 
All     the     powerless     powers,     tongue-valiant, 
breathe  but  greed's  or  terror's  breath. 

Though  the  tide  that  feels  the  west  wind  lift  it, 

wave  by  widening  wave, 
Wax  not  yet  to  height  and  fullness  of  the  storm 

that  smites  to  save, 
None  shall  bid  the  flood  back  seaward  till  no 

bar  be  left  to  brave. 
March  ist,  1897. 


156 


MEMORIAL  ODE  ON  THE 
DEATH  OF  LECONTE  DE  LISLE 

On  the  first  of  June  1885,  the  greatest  poet  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  was  borne  to  his  rest  amid  the  lamentations 
and  the  applause  of  his  countrymen,  and  of  all  to  whom 
either  the  example  of  a  noble  life  or  the  triumph  of  a  genius 
inaccessible  and  unapproachable  seemed  worthy  of  honour 
and  regard.  Many  earnest  and  cordial  and  admirable  words 
of  tribute  and  thanksgiving  and  farewell  were  uttered  over 
the  hearse  of  Victor  Hugo ;  none  more  memorable  than  those 
in  which  a  great  poet  became  the  spokesman  of  all  his  kind 
in  honour  of  the  greatest  of  them  all.  Short  and  simple  as 
was  the  speech  of  M.  Leconte  de  Lisle,  none  of  the  longer 
and  more  elaborate  orations  was  more  genuinely  eloquent, 
more  seriously  valuable,  than  the  admirably  terse  and  apt 
expression  of  gratitude  and  reverence  with  which  he  bade 
"farewell  and  hail"  in  the  name  of  all  surviving  poets  to  their 
beloved  and  beneficent  master.  Nor  could  a  fitter  and  a 
worthier  spokesman  have  been  imagined  or  desired  by  the 
most  exacting  or  the  most  ambitious  devotion  or  design. — 
A.C.S. 


Beside  the  lordliest  grave  in  all  the  world, 
A  singer  crowned  with  golden  years  and  fame 

Spake  words  more  sweet  than  wreaths  of  incense 

curled, 
That  bade  an  elder  yet  and  mightier  name 

157 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

Hail,  for  whose  love  the  wings  of  time  were 

furled, 
And  death   that  heard  it  died  of  deadlier 

shame. 

Our  father  and  lord  of  all  the  sons  of  song, 
Hugo,  supreme  on  earth,  had  risen  above 

Earth,  as  the  sun  soars  noonward:  grief  and 

wrong 
Had  yielded  up  their  part  in  him  to  love; 

And  one  man's  word  came  forth  upon  the  throng 
Brief  as  the  brooding  music  of  the  dove. 

And  he  now  too,  the  praiser  as  the  praised, 
Being  silent,  speaks  for  ever.  He,  whose  word 

Reverberate  made  the  gloom  whereon  he  gazed 
Radiant  with  sound  whose  song  in  his  we 

heard, 

Stands  far  from  us  as  they  whose  souls  he  raised 
Again,  and  darkness  carolled  like  a  bird. 

II 

Golden  eastern  waters  rocked  the  cradle  where 

he  slept 
Songless,  crowned  with  bays  to  be  of  sovereign 

song, 
Breathed  upon  with  balm  and  calm  of  bounteous 

seas  that  kept 
Secret  all  the  blessing  of  his  birthright,  strong, 

158 


MEMORIAL  ODE 

Soft,  severe,  and  sweet  as  dawn  when  first  it 

laughed  and  leapt 
Forth  of  heaven,  and  clove  the  clouds  that 

wrought  it  wrong. 

Calm  and  proud  and  patient  even  as  light  that 

bides  its  hour 
All  night  long  till  night  wax  weary,  shone 

the  soul 
Crowned  and  girt  with  light,  sublime  in  peace 

and  sure  in  power, 
Sunlike,  over  tidal  years  and  changes ;  whole, 
Full,  serene,  superb  as  time  that  kindles  fruit 

from  flower, 
Lord  alike  of  waves  that  rest  and  waves  that 

roll. 

Sunlight  round  the  soft  Virgilian  meads  where 

sunbeams  sleep 
Lulled  not  overlong  a  spirit  of  strength  to 

strive 
Right  against  the  winds   that  stormier  times 

heard  strain  and  sweep 
Round  the  rocks  whereon  man  crucified  alive 
Man,  and  bade  the  soul  of  manhood  cower  and 

chant  and  weep, 
Strong  in  vain  to  soar  and  seek,  to  delve  and 

dive. 
159 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 


III 


Time  and  change  and  death  made  music  as  of 

life  and  strife  and  doom 
When  his  lyric  spell  bade  ope  the  graves  of 

ages  dead  as  dust. 
Cain,  a  shadow  like  a  sunrise  clad  in  fire  whose 

light  was  gloom, 
Towered  above  the  deepening  deluge,  crying 

on  justice  held  unjust, 
Whence  his  giant  sons  should  find  the  world 
their  throne  become  their  tomb, 
And  a  wider  world  of  waters  hide  the  strong- 
holds of  their  trust. 

Soiled  with  desert  sand  and  lit  with  fire  of  wrath 

from  heaven,  the  seer 
Spake  for  Naboth  slain  the  sentence  of  the 

judgment  of  the  Lord: 
Age  on  ruining  age  and  year  as  rolling  thunder 

crashed  on  year 
Down  the  measures  of  the  mighty  song  that 

glittered  like  a  sword: 
Truth  and  legend  strange  and  fierce  as  truth  or 

dreams  of  faith  and  fear 
Made  their  lightnings  one  to  crown  it,  flashed 
from  stormy  chord  to  chord. 
1 60 


MEMORIAL  ODE 

Now  the  lyre  whose  lord's  wise  mastery  gave  its 

notes  reverberate  skill 
Whence  to  give  again  the  grace  of  golden 
gifts  or  hands  long  dead, 
Now  the  deep  clear  soul  that  all  the  lore  of  time 

could  scarce  fulfil, 
Now  the  sovereign  voice  that  spake  it,  now 
the  radiant  eye  that  read, 
Seem  to  sleep  as  sleeps  the  indomitable  imper- 
ishable will 
Here,  that  haply  lives  and  sleeps  not,  though 
its  word  on  earth  be  said. 

1894. 


161 


MEMORIAL  VERSES  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  KARL  BLIND 

ACROSS  the  wide-wing' d  years 

Whose  sound  no  hearkener  hears 
Passing  in  thunder  of  reverberate  flight, 

Nor  any  seer  may  see 

What  fruit  of  them  shall  be, 
Shines  from  the  death-struck  past  a  living  light, 

And  music  breathed  of  memory's  breath 
Attunes  the  darkling  silence  born  of  earthly 

death. 

Through  all  the  thunderous  time, 
Now  silent  and  sublime, 
When  Right  in  hopeless  hope  waged  war  on 

Wrong, 
His  head  shone  high,  his  hand 
Grasped  as  a  burning  brand 
The  sword  of  faith  which  weakness  makes  more 

strong, 
And  they  for  whom  it  shines  hold  fast 
The   trust   that  Time   bequeaths   for   truth   to 

assure  at  last. 
162 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 

Not  prison,  not  the  breath 

Of  doom  denouncing  death, 
Could  make  the  manhood  in  him  burn  less  high 

For  one  breath's  space  than  when 

It  shone  for  following  men, 
A  sign  to  show  how  man  might  live  or  die 

With  freedom  in  triumphant  sight, 
And  hope  elate  above  all  fluctuant  chance  of 

fight. 

The  German  fame  of  old, 

By  Roman  hands  inscrolled 
As  bright  beyond  all  nations  else  borne  down, 

Shone  round  his  banished  head, 

As  round  the  deathless  dead 
With  light  bequeathed  of  one  coequal  crown: 

And  now  that  his  and  theirs  are  one 
No  time  shall  see  the  setting  of  that  sovereign 

sun. 

All  this  must  all  time  know 

While  memories  ebb  and  flow 
Till  out  of  blind  forgetfulness  is  born 

Fame  deathless  as  the  day, 

When  none  may  think  to  say 
Her  light  is  less  than  noon  and  even  and  morn: 

When  glories  forged  in  hell-fire  fade, 
And  warrior  empires  wither  in  the  waste  they 

made. 
163 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

When  all  a  forger's  fame 

Is  shrivelled  up  in  shame; 
When  all  imperial  notes  of  praise  and  prayer 

And  hoarse  thanksgiving  raised 

To  the  abject  God  they  praised 
For  murderous  mercies  are  but  poisonous  air; 

When  Bismarck  and  his  William  lie 
Low  even  as  he  they  warred  on — damned  too 

deep  to  die. 

For  how  should  history  bid 

Their  names  go  free,  lie  hid, 
Stand  scathless  of  her  Tacitean  brand? 

From  them  forgetfulness, 

Too  bright  a  boon  to  bless 
Crime  deep  as  hell,  withholds  her  healing  hand; 

But  while  their  fame  was  fresh  and  rank 
The  old  light  of  German  glory  here  nor  sank 

nor  shrank. 

Here,  where  all  wrongs  find  aid, 

Where  all  foul  strengths  are  stayed, 
Where  empire  means  not  evil,  here  was  one 

Whose  glance,  whose  smile,  whose  voice 

Bade  all  their  souls  rejoice 
Who  hailed  in  sight  of  English  sea  and  sun 

A  head  sublime  as  theirs  who  died 
For   England   ere   her  praise  was    Freedom's 

crowning  pride. 
164 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 

Not  even  his  head  shone  higher, 

Whose  only  loftiest  lyre 
Were  meet  to  hail  faith  pure  and  proud  as  his: 

A  pride  all  praise  must  wrong 

Less  high  than  soared  the  song 
Wherein  the  light  that  was  and  was  not  is: 

The  lyric  light  whence  Milton  lit 
The  darkness  of  the  darkling  days  that  knew 

not  it. 

Less  high  my  praise  may  soar: 

But  when  it  lives  no  more 
Silent  and  fervent  in  the  secret  heart 

That  holds  for  all  time  fast 

The  sense  of  time  long  past, 
No  sense  of  life  will  then  therein  have  part. 

No  thought  may  speak,  no  words  enshrine, 
My  thanks  to  him  who  gave  Mazzini's  hand  to 

mine. 

Our  glorious  century  gone 

Beheld  no  head  that  shone 
More  clear  across  the  storm,  above  the  foam, 

More  steadfast  in  the  fight 

Of  warring  night  and  light, 
True  to  the  truth  whose  star  leads  heroes  home, 

Than  his  who,  loving  all  things  free, 
Loved  as  with  English  passion  of  delight  our 

sea. 

165 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

The  joy  of  glorious  age 

To  greet  the  sea's  glad  rage 
With  answering  rapture  as  of  bird  or  boy, 

When  sundawn  thrilled  the  foam 

And  bade  the  sea's  flock  home, 
Crowned  all  a  foiled  heroic  life  with  joy 

Bright  as  the  light  of  living  flame, 
That   glows,    a    deathless   gloriole,    round    his 

deathless  name. 

1907. 


166 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

I 

A  VOICE  comes  from  the  far  unsleeping  years, 
An  echo  from  the  rayless  verge  of  time, 
Harsh,  with  the  gathered  weight  of  kingly 

crime, 
Whose  soul  is  stained  with  blood  and  bloodlike 

tears, 
And  hearts  made  hard  and  blind  with  endless 

pain, 
And  eyes  too  dim  to  bear 
The  light  of  the  free  air, 
And  hands   no  longer   restless   in   the  wonted 

chain, 
And  valiant  lives  worn  out 
By  silence  and  the  doubt 
That  comes  with  hope  found  weaponless  and 

vain; 
All  these  cry  out  to  thee, 
As  thou  to  Liberty, 
All,  looking  up  to  thee,  take  heart  and  life  again. 

II 

Too  long  the  world  has  waited.    Year  on  year 
Has  died  in  voiceless  fear 

i67 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Since  tyranny  began  the  silent  ill, 

And  Slaughter  satiates  yet  her  ravenous  will. 

Surely  the  time  is  near — 

The  dawn  grows  wide  and  clear; 
And  fiercer  beams  than  pave  the  steps  of  day 

Pierce  all  the  brightening  air 

And  in  some  nightly  lair 
The  keen  white  lightning  hungers  for  his  prey, 

Against  his  chain  the  growing  thunder  yearns 

With  hot  swift  pulses  all  the  silence  burns, 
And  the  earth  hears,  and  maddens  with  delay. 


Ill 


Dost  thou  not  hear,  thro'  the  hushed  heart  of 

night, 
The  voices  wailing  for  thy  help,  thy  sight, 

The  souls,  that  call  their  lord? 

"We  want  the  voice,  the  sword, 
We  want  the  hand  to  strike,  the  love  to  share 

The  weight  we  cannot  bear; 
The  soul  to  point  our  way,  the  heart  to  do  and 

dare. 

We  want  the  unblinded  eye, 

The  spirit  pure  and  high, 
And  consecrated  by  enduring  care: 

For  now  we  dare  not  meet 

The  memories  of  the  past; 

1 68 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

They  wound  us  with  their  glories  bright  and 

fleet, 

The  fame  that  would  not  last, 

The  hopes  that  were  too  sweet; 

A  voice  of  lamentation 
Shakes  the  high  places  of  the  throned  nation, 
The  crownless  nation  sitting  wan  and  bare 

Upon  the  royal  seat." 

IV1 

Too  long  the  world  has  waited.  Day  by  day 
The  noiseless  feet  of  murder  pass  and  stain 
Palace  and  prison,  street  and  loveliest  plain, 
1  In  the  MS.,  Stanza  IV  originally  began  as  follows — 

"Too  long  the  world  has  waited.    Day  by  day 
Fresh  murders  ease  the  thirst  of  widening  sway : 
And  still  their  blood  who  lie  without  a  shroud 

Left  to  the  wild  bleak  air, 

As  they  were  slaughter'd  there, 
Cries  from  the  desolate  Apennine  aloud. 

Father  and  children  lain 

A  white  bleak  pile  of  slain, 
Left  to  the  sunlight  and  the  freezing  rain. 

Thro'  blood-polluted  halls 

Still  the  king-serpent  sprawls 
His  shiny  way  athwart  the  floors  defiled; 

From  that  foul  nest  of  sin 

His  soul  sits  cowering  in 
Still  creeps  and  stings  his  anger  blind  and  wild. 

Still  from  that  loathsome  lair,"  etc. 

Swinburne  evidently  cancelled  these  lines.,  as  being  too  violent 
to  represent  anything  that  was  happening  in  1857. 

169 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

And  the  slow  life  of  freedom  bleeds  away. 

Still  bleached  in  sun  and  rain, 

Lie  the  forgotten  slain 
On  bleak  slopes  of  the  dismal  mountain-range. 

Still  the  wide  eagle-wings 

Brood  o'er  the  sleep  of  Kings, 
Whose  purples  shake  not  in  the  wind  of  change. 

Still  our  lost  land  is  beautiful  in  vain, 

Where  priests  and  kings  defile  with  blood  and 

lies 

The  glory  of  the  inviolable  skies; 

Still  from  that  loathsome  lair 

Where  crawls  the  sickening  air, 
Heavy  with  poison,  stagnant  as  despair, 
Where  soul  and  body  moulder  in  one  chain 

Of  inward-living  pain: 
From  wasted  lives,  and  hopes  proved  unavail- 
ing; 

In  utterance  harsh  and  strange, 

With  many  a  fitful  change, 

In  laughter  and  in  tears, 

In  triumph  and  in  fears, 
The  voice  of  earth  goes  heavenward  for  revenge: 
And  all  the  children  of  her  dying  year 

Fill  up  the  unbroken  strains 
From  priestly  tongues  that  scathe  with  lies  and 

vailing 

The   Bourbons'    murderous    dotard,    sick   of 

blood, 
170 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

To  the  "How-long"  of  stricken  spirits,  wailing 
Before  the  throne  of  God. 


Austria!    The  voice  is  deepening  in  thine  ears 
And  art  thou  still  asleep, 
Drunken  with  blood  and  tears! 
A  murderer's  rest  should  hardly  be  so  deep 
Till  comes  the  calm  unbroken  by  the  years, 
And  those,  whose  life  crawls  on  thro'   dying 

shame, 
A  thing  made  up  of  lies  and  fears,  more  vile 
Than  aught  that  lives  and  bears  a  hateful 

name 
For  the  crowned  serpent,  skilled  in  many  a  wile, 
Charmed  with  the  venomous  honey  of  its  guile 
The  guards  until  they  slept, 
And  only  fawned  and  crept 
Till  Fortune  gave  it  leave  to  sting  and  smile! 
Have  not  the  winds  of  Heaven  and  the  free 

waves 
A  voice  to  bear  the  curses  of  thy  slaves 

And  the  loud  hatred  of  the  world!    O  thou 
Upon  whose  shameless  brow 
The  crown  is  as  a  brand, 
The  sceptre  trembles  in  thy  trothless  hand, 
Shrinks  not  thy  soul  before  the  shame  it  braves, 
The  gathered  anger  of  a  patient  land, 

171 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

The  loathing  scorn  that  hardly  bears  to  name 

thee? 
By  all  the  lies  that  cannot  shame  thee, 
By  all  the  memories  thou  must  bear 
In  hushed  unspeakable  despair; 
By  the  Past  that  follows  thee, 
By  the  Future  that  shall  be 
We  curse  thee  by  the  freedom  living  still, 
We  curse  thee  by  the  hopes  thou  canst  not  kill, 
We  curse  thee  in  the  name  of  the  wronged  earth 
That  gave  thy  treasons  birth. 

VI 

Out  of  a  court  alive  with  creeping  things 
A  stench  has  risen  to  thicken  and  pollute 
The  inviolate  air  of  heaven  that  clad  of 

yore 
Our  Italy  with  light,  because  these  Kings 
Gather  like  wasps  about  the  tainted  fruit, 
And  eat  their  venomous  way  into  its  core, 
And  soil  with  hateful  hands  its  golden  hue; 

Till  on  the  dead  branch  clings 
A  festering  horror  blown  with  poison-dew; 
Then  laugh  "So  Freedom  loses  her  last  name 
And  Italy  is  shamed  with  our  shame !" 
For  blindness  holds  them  still 
And  lust  of  craving  will: 
A  mist  is  on  their  souls  who  cannot  see 

172 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

The    ominous    light,    nor    hear    the    fateful 

sounds; 
Who  know  not  of  the  glory  that  shall  be, 
And    was,    ere   Austria    loosed   her   winged 

hounds 
These     double-beak'd     and     bloody-plumaged 

things, 
Whose  shadow  is  the  hiding-place  of  kings. 

VII 

Behold,  even  they  whose  shade  is  black  around, 
Whose  names  make  dumb  the  nations  in  their 

hate, 
Tremble  to  other  tyrants;  Naples  bows 
Aghast,   and  Austria  cowers  like   a  scourged 

hound 
Before  the  priestly  hunters:  'tis  their  fate, 
Whose  fear  is  as  a  brand-mark  on  men's 

brows, 
Themselves  to  shrink  beneath  a  fiercer  dread; 
The  might  of  ancient  error 
Round  royal  spirits  folds  its  shroud  of  terror, 
And  at  a  name  the  imperial  soul  is  dead. 
Rome!  as  from  thee  the  primal  curse  came  forth 

So  comes  the  retribution : 
As  the  flushed  murderers  of  the  ravening  north 

Crouch  for  thine  absolution. 
Exalt  thyself,  that  love  or  fear  of  thee 

173 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Hath  shamed  thine  Austrian  bondsmen,  and 

their  shame 
Avenges  the  vext  spirits  of  the  free, 

Repays  the  trustless  lips,  the  bloody  hands, 

And  all  the  sin  that  makes  the  Austrian  name 
A  bye-word  among  liars — fit  to  be 

Thy  herald,  Rome,  among  the  wasted  lands! 

VIII 

For  wheresoe'er  thou  lookest,  death  is  there, 
And  a  slow  curse  that  stains  the  sacred  air: 
Such  as  must  hound  Italia  till  she  learn 
Whereon   to  lean  the  weight  of  reverent 

trust 

Learn  to  see  God  within  her,  and  not  bare 

Her  glories  to  the  ravenous  eyes  of  lust; 

Vain  of  dishonour  that  proclaims  her  fair. 

Such  insolence  of  listless  pride  must  earn 

The  scourge  of  Austria — till  mischance  in 

turn 
Defile  her  eagles  with  fresh  blood  and  dust. 

For  tho'  the  faint  heart  burn 
In  silence:  yet  a  sullen  flame  is  there 
Which  yet  may  leap  into  the  sunless  air 
And  gather  in  the  embrace  of  its  wide  wings 
The  shining  spoil  of  kings. 

IX 

But  now  the  curse  lies  heavy.  Where  art  thou, 
Our  Italy,  among  all  these  laid  low 

174 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

Too  powerless  or  too  desperate  to  speak — 
Thou,  robed  in  purple  for  a  priestly  show, 

Thou,  buffeted  and  stricken,  blind  and  weak! 
Doth  not  remembrance  light  thine  utter  woe? 
Thine  eyes  beyond  this  Calvary  look,  altho' 
Brute-handed  Austria  smite  thee  on  the  cheek 
And  her  thorns  pierce  thy  forehead,  white 

and  meek; 
In  lurid  mist  half-strangled  sunbeams  pine, 
Yet  purer  than  the  flame  of  tainted  altars; 
And  tho'  thy  weak  hope  falters, 
It  clings  not  to  the  desecrated  shrine. 

Tho'  thy  blank  eyes  look  wanly  thro'  dull  tears, 

And  thy  weak  soul  is  heavy  with  blind  fears, 

Yet  art  thou  greater  than  thy  sorrow  is, 

Yet  is  thy  spirit  nobler  than  of  yore, 

Knowing  the  keys  thy  reverence  used  to  kiss 

Were   forged   for   emperors   to   bow    down 

before, 
Not  for  free  men  to  worship :  So  that  Faith, 
Blind  portress  of  the  gate  which  opens  death, 
Shall  never  prate  of  Freedom  any  more; 
For  on  a  priest's  tongue  such  a  word  is  strange, 
And  when  they  laud  who  did  but  now  revile, 
Shall  we  believe?     Rome's  lying  lips  defile 
The  graves  of  heroes,  giving  us  in  change 

Enough  of  Saints  and  Bourbons.  Dare  ye  now 
Receive  her  who   speaks   pleasant  words   and 

bland 

175 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

And  stretches  out  the  blessing  of  her  hand 
While  the  pure  blood  of  freemen  stains  her 

brow? 

O  dream  not  of  such  reconcilement!    Be 
At  least  in  spirit  free 

When  the  great  sunrise  floods  your  glorious  land. 

X 

For  yet  the  dawn  is  lingering  white  and  far, 

And  dim  its  guiding  star; 
There  is  a  sorrow  in  the  speechless  air, 
And  in  the  sunlight  a  dull  painful  glare; 

The  winds,  that  fold  around 

That  soft  enchanted  ground 
Their  wings  of  music,  sadden  into  song; 

The  holy  stars  await 

Some  dawn  of  glimmering  fate 
In  silence — but  the  time  of  pain  seems  long, 

But  here  no  comfort  stills 
This  sorrow  that  o'erclouds  the  purple  hills. 

XI 

The  sun  is  bright,  and  fair  the  foamless  sea; 
The  winds  are  loud  with  light  and  liberty: 

But  when  shall  these  be  free? 
These  hearts  that  beat  thro'  stifled  pain,  these 

eyes 
Strained  thro'  dim  prison-air  toward  the  free 

skies : 
When  shall  their  light  arise? 
176 


_:  _      ' 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

XII 

Thou!  whose  best  name  on  earth 
Is  Love — whose  fairest  birth 
The  freedom  of  the  fair  world  thou  hast  made; 
Whose  light  in  Heaven  is  life, 
Whose  rest  above  our  strife — 
Whose    bright   sky   overvaults    earth's    barren 

shade; 
Who  hearest  all  ere  this  weak  prayer  can  rise, 

Before  whose  viewless  eyes 
Unrolled  and  far  the  starry  future  lies; 
Behold  what  men  have  done, 
What  is  beneath  thy  sun — 
What  stains  the  sceptred  hand,  sin  lifts  to  thee 

In  prayer-like  mockery — 
What  binds  the  heart  Thou  madest  to  be  free. 
Since  we  are  blind,  give  light — 
Since  we  are  feeble,  smite — 
How  long  shall  man  be  scornful  in  thy  sight, 
"Fear  not — He  cares  not,  or  He  does  not  see?" 

XIII 

We  keep  our  trust  tho'  all  things  fail  us — 

Tho'  Time  nor  baffled  Hope  avail  us, 
We  keep  our  faith — God  liveth  and  is  love. 

Not  one  groan  rises  there 

Tho'  choked  in  dungeon  air 
But  He  has  heard  it  though  no  thunders  move — 

And  though  no  help  is  here, 
177 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

No  royal  oath,  no  Austrian  lie, 
But  echoes  in  the  listening  sky; 
We  know  not,  yet  perchance  His  wide  reply 

is  near. 
Ah,  let  no  sloth  delay, 
No  discord  mar  its  way, 
Keep  wide  the  entrance  for  that  Hope  divine; 
Truth  never  wanted  swords, 
Since  with  his  swordlike  words 
Savonarola  smote  the  Florentine. 
Even  here  she  is  not  weaponless,  but  waits 
Silent  at  the  palace  gates, 
Her  wide  eyes  kindling  eastward  to  the  far  sun- 
shine. 
When  out  of  Naples  came  a  tortured  voice: 
Whereat  the  whole  earth  shuddered,  and 

forbade 
The  murderous  smile  on  lying  lips  to  fade; 
The  murderous  heart  in  silence  to  rejoice; 
She  also  smiled — no  royal  smile — as  knowing 
Some  stains  of  sloth  washed  by  the  blood  then 

flowing; 
Their  lives  went  out  in  darkness — not  in 

vain; 
Earth  cannot  hear,  and  sink  to  bloodless  rest 

again. 
And  if  indeed  her  waking  strength  shall 

prove 

i78 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

Worthy  the  dreams  that  passing  lit  her 

sleep, 
Who  then  shall  lift  such  eyes  of  triumph,  who 
Respond  with  echoes  of  a  louder  love 
Than    Cromwell's    England?   let   fresh    praise 

renew 
The  wan  brow's  withered  laurels  with  its  dew, 
And  one  triumphal  peace  the  crowned  earth 

shall  keep. 

XIV 

As  one  who  dreaming  on  some  cloud-white  peak 
Hears  the  loud  wind  sail  past  him  far  and 

free, 
And  the  faint  music  of  the  misty  sea, 
Listening  till  all  his  life  reels  blind  and  weak; 
So  discrowned  Italy 
With  the  world's  hope  in  her  hands 

Ever  yearning  to  get  free, 
Silent  between  the  past  and  future  stands. 
Dim  grows  the  past,  and  dull, 
All  that  was  beautiful, 
As   scattered  stars   drawn   down   the   moonless 

night: 
And  the  blind  eyes  of  Scorn 
Are  smitten  by  strange  morn, 
And    many-throned   treason   wastes   before   its 

might : 
179 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

And  every  sunless  cave 

And  time-forgotten  grave 
Is  pierced  with  one  intolerable  light. 

Not  one  can  Falsehood  save 

Of  all  the  crowns  she  gave, 
But  the  dead  years  renew  their  old  delight. 

The  worshipped  evil  wanes 

Through  all  its  godless  fanes, 
And  falters  from  its  long  imperial  height, 

As  the  last  altar-flame 
Dies  with  a  glorious  nation's  dying  shame. 

XV 

And  when  that  final  triumph-time  shall  be, 

Whose  memory  shall  be  kept 

First  of  the  souls  that  slept 
In  death  ere  light  was  on  their  Italy? 

Or  which  of  men  more  dear  than  thee 

To  equal-thoughted  liberty, 
Whom  here  on  earth  such  reverence  meets. 
Such  love  from  Heaven's  pure  children  greets 

As  few  dare  win  among  the  free! 

Such  honour  ever  follows  thee 
In  peril,  banishment,  and  blame, 
And  all  the  loud  blind  world  calls  shame, 
Lives,  and  shall  live,  thy  glorious  name, 
Tho'  death,  that  scorns  the  robed  slave, 
Embrace  thee,  and  a  chainless  grave. 

1 80 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

While  thou  livest,  there  is  one 

Free  in  soul  beneath  the  sun : 
And  thine  out-laboured  heart  shall  be 
In  death  more  honoured — not  more  free. 

XVI 

And  men  despond  around  thee;  and  thy  name 
The  tyrant  smiles   at,   and   his   priests  look 

pale; 
And  weariness  of  empty-throated  fame, 
And  men  who  live  and  fear  all  things  but  shame, 
Comes  on  thee;  and  the  weight  of  aimless 

years 
Whose  light  is  dim  with  tears : 

And  hope  dies  out  like  a  forgotten  tale. 
O  brother,  crowned  among  men — O  chief 

In  glory  as  in  grief! 
O  throned  by  sorrow  over  time  and  fate 

And  the  blind  strength  of  hate! 
From  soul  to  answering  soul 

The  thunder-echoes  roll, 
And  truth  grows  out  of  suffering  still  and  great. 
To  have  done  well  is  victory, — to  be  true 
Is  truest  guerdon,  though  blind  hands  undo 

The  work  begun  too  late. 
God  gives  to  each  man  power  by  toil  to  earn 

An  undishonoured  grave: 
The  praise  that  lives  on  every  name  in  turn 
He  leaves  the  laurelled  slave. 
181 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

We  die,  but  freedom  dies  not  like  the  power 
That  changes  with  the  many-sided  hour. 
Though   trampled   under   the   brute   hoofs   of 

crime, 

She  sees  thro'  tears  and  blood, 
Above  the  stars  and  in  the  night  of  time, 

The  sleepless  watch  of  God; 
Past  fear  and  pain  and  errors  wide  and  strange 
The     veiPd     years     leading     wingless-footed 

Change; 

Endure,  and  they  shall  give 
Truth  and  the  law  whereby  men  work  and  live. 

XVII 

From  Ischia  to  the  loneliest  Apennine 

Time's  awful  voice  is  blown; 

And  from  her  clouded  throne 
Freedom  looks  out  and  knows  herself  divine. 

From  walls  that  keep  in  shame 

Poerio's  martyr-name, 
From  wild  rocks  foul  with  children's  blood,  it 

rings; 

Their  murderers  gaze  aghast 

Through  all  the  hideous  past, 
And  fate  is  heavy  on  the  souls  of  kings. 

No  more  their  hateful  sway 

Pollutes  the  equal  day, 
Nor  stricken  truth  pales  under  its  wide  wings, 

182 


ODE  TO  MAZZINI 

Even   when    the    awakened    people    speaks    in 

wrath, 

Wrong  shall  not  answer  wrong  with  blind 

impatience; 
The  bloody  slime  upon  that  royal  path 

Makes    slippery    standing    for    the    feet    of 

nations. 
Our  freedom's  bridal  robe  no  wrong  shall  stain, 

No  lie  shall  taint  her  speech: 
But  equal  knowledge  shall  be  born  of  pain, 

And  wisdom  shaping  each. 
True  leaders  shall  be  with  us,  nobler  laws 
Shall  guide  us  calmly  to  the  final  Cause: 

And  thou,  earth's  crownless  queen, 

No  more  shalt  wail  unseen, 
But  front  the  weary  ages  without  pain: 

Time  shall  bring  back  for  thee 

The  hopes  that  lead  the  free, 
And  thy  name  fill  the  charmed  world  again. 

The  shame  that  stains  thy  brow 
Shall  not  for  ever  mark  thee  to  fresh  fears: 
For  in  the  far  light  of  the  buried  years 

Shines  the  undarkened  future  that  shall  be 

A  dawn  o'er  sunless  ages.    Hearest  thou, 
Italia?  tho'  deaf  sloth  hath  sealed  thine  ears, 
The  world  has  heard  thy  children — and  God 

hears. 


183 


PARODIES 


DISGUST: 

A  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE1 

A  woman  and  her  husband,  having  been  converted  from 
free  thought  to  Calvinism,  and  being  utterly  miserable  in 
consequence,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by  poison.  The  man 
dies,  but  the  woman  is  rescued  by  application  of  the  stomach- 
pump. —  [A.  C.  S.] 


PILLS?  talk  to  me  of  your  pills?    Well,  that,  I 

must  say,  is  cool. 
Can't  bring  my  old  man  round?  he  was  always 

a  stubborn  old  fool. 
If  I  hadn't  taken  precautions — a  warning  to  all 

that  wive— 
He  might  not  have  been  dead,  and  I  might  not 

have  been  alive. 

II 

You  would  like  to  know,  if  I  please,  how  it  was 

that  our  troubles  began? 
You  see,  we  were  brought  up  Agnostics,  I  and 

my  poor  old  man. 

1 A  parody  of  Tennyson's  Despair. 

187 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

And  we  got  some  idea  of  selection  and  evolution, 

you  know — 
Professor  Huxley's  doing — where  does  he  expect 

to  go! 

Ill 

Well,  then  came  trouble  on  trouble  on  trouble — 

I  may  say,  a  peck — 
And  his  cousin  was  wanted  one   day  on   the 

charge  of  forging  a  cheque — 
And  his  puppy  died  of  the  mange — my  parrot 

choked  on  its  perch. 
This  was  the  consequence  was  it,  of  not  going 

weekly  to  church? 

IV 

So  we  felt  that  the  best  if  not  only  thing  that 

remained  to  be  done 
On  an  earth  everlastingly  moving  about  a  per- 
petual sun, 
Where  worms  breed  worms  to  be  eaten  of  worms 

that  have  eaten  their  betters — 
And  reviewers  are  barely  civil — and  people  get 

spiteful  letters — 
And  a  famous  man  is  forgot  ere  the  minute 

hand  can  tick  nine — 
Was  to  send  in  our  P.  P.  C,  and  purchase  a 

packet  of  strychnine. 
1 88 


DISGUST 

V 

Nay — but  first  we  thought  it  was  rational — only 

fair — 
To  give  both  parties  a  hearing — and  went  to 

the  meeting-house  there, 
At  the  curve  of  the  street  that  runs  from  the 

Stag  to  the  old  Blue  Lion. 
"Little  Zion"  they  call  it— a  deal  more  "little" 

than  "Zion." 
VI 
And    the    preacher    preached    from    the    text, 

"Come  out  of  her."   Hadn't  we  come? 
And  we  thought  of  the  shepherd  in  Pickwick — 

and  fancied  a  flavour  of  rum 
Balmily  borne  on  the  wind  of  his  words — and 

my  man  said,  "Well, 
Let's  get  out  of  this,  my  dear — for  his  text  has 

a  brimstone  smell." 
VII 
So  we  went,  O  God,  out  of  chapel — and  gazed, 

ah  God,  at  the  sea. 
And  I  said  nothing  to  him.    And  he  said  noth- 
ing to  me. 
VIII 
And  there,  you  see,  was  an  end  of  it  all.    It  was 

obvious,  in  fact, 
That,  whether  or  not  you  believe  in  the  doctrine 

taught  in  a  tract, 
189 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Life  was  not  in  the  least  worth  living.    Because, 

don't  you  see? 
Nothing  that  can't  be,  can,  and  what  must  be, 

must.    Q.  E.  D. 
And  the  infinitesimal  sources  of  Infinite  Uni- 

deality 
Curve  in  to  the  central  abyss  of  a  sort  of  a  queer 

Personality 
Whose  refraction  is  felt  in  the  nebulae  strewn  in 

the  pathway  of  Mars 
Like  the  parings  of  nails  Ionian — clippings  and 

snippings  of  stars — 
Shavings  of  suns  that  revolve  and  evolve  and 

involve  and  at  times 
Give  a  sweet  astronomical  twang  to  remarkably 

hobbling  rhymes. 

IX 

And  the  sea  curved  in  with  a  moan — and  we 

thought  how  once — before 
We  fell  out  with  those  atheist  lecturers — once, 

ah,  once  and  no  more, 
We  read  together,  while  midnight  blazed  like 

the  Yankee  flag, 
A  reverend  gentleman's  work — the  Conversion 

of  Colonel  Quagg. 
And  out  of  its  pages  we  gathered  this  lesson  of 

doctrine  pure — 
190 


DISGUST 

Zephaniah  Stockdolloger's  gospel — a  word  that 

deserves  to  endure 
Infinite  millions  on  millions  of  infinite  TEons  to 

come — 
"Vocation,"  says  he,  "is  vocation,  and  duty  duty. 

Some." 


And  duty,  said  I,   distinctly  points  out — and 

vocation,  said  he, 
Demands  as  distinctly — that  I  should  kill  you, 

and  that  you  should  kill  me. 
The  reason  is  obvious — we  cannot  exist  without 

creeds — who  can? 
So  we  went  to  the  chemist's — a  highly  respect- 
able church-going  man — 
And    bought    two    packets    of    poison.      You 

wouldn't  have  done  so? — Wait. 
It's  evident,  Providence  is  not  with  you,  ma'am, 

the  same  thing  as  Fate. 
Unconscious  cerebration  educes  God  from  a  fog, 
But  spell  God  backwards,  what  then?    Give  it 

up?  the  answer  is,  dog. 
(I  don't  exactly  see  how  this  last  verse  is  to  scan, 
But  that's  a  consideration  I  leave  to  the  secular 

man.) 


191 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

XI 

I  meant  of  course  to  go  with  him — as  far  as  I 

pleased — but  first 
To  see  how  my  old  man  liked  it — I  thought 

perhaps  he  might  burst. 
I  didn't  wish  it — but  still  it's  a  blessed  release 

for  a  wife — 
And  he  saw  that  I  thought  so — and  grinned  in 

derision — and  threatened  my  life 
If  I  made  wry  faces — and  so  I  took  just  a  sip — 

and  he — 
Well — you  know  how  it  ended — he  didn't  get 

over  me. 

XII 

Terrible,  isn't  it?  Still,  on  reflection,  it  might 

have  been  worse. 
He  might  haye  been  the  unhappy  survivor,  and 

followed  my  hearse. 
"Never  do  it  again  ?"     Why  certainly  not.     You 

don't 
Suppose  I  should  think  of  it,  surely?    But  any- 
how— there — I  won't 


192 


THE  GHOST  OF  IT1 

IN  my  poems,  with  ravishing  rapture, 

Storm  strikes  me,  and  strokes  me,  and  stings; 

But  I'm  scarcely  the  bird  you  might  capture 
Out  of  doors  in  the  thick  of  such  things. 

I  prefer  to  be  well  out  of  harm's  way, 
When  tempest  makes  tremble  the  tree, 

And  the  wind  with  armipotent  arm-sway 
Makes  soap  of  the  sea. 

Hanging  hard  on  the  rent  rags  of  others 

Who  before  me  did  better,  I  try 
To  believe  them  my  sisters  and  brothers, 

Though  I  know  what  a  low  lot  am  I. 
Truth  dawns  on  time's  resonant  ruin 

Frank,  fulminant,  fragrant  and  free, 
And  apparently  this  is  the  doing 
Of  wind  on  the  sea. 

1  This  parody  of  a  chorus  in  By  the  North  Sea,  was  writ- 
ten in  1880,  and  was  originally  intended  to  occupy  a  position 
in  Heptalogia,  published  in  that  year.  It  was,  however,  ul- 
timately discarded  in  favour  of  Nephelidia. 

193 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS 

Fame  flutters  in  front  of  pretension 
Whose  flag-staff  is  flagrantly  fine, 

And  it  cannot  be  needful  to  mention 
That  such  beyond  question  is  mine. 

It's  plain  as  a  newspaper  leader 
That  a  rhymester  who  scribbles  like  me 

May  feel  perfectly  sure  that  his  reader 
Is  sick  of  the  sea.1 

1  Upon  the  reverse  of  one  of  the  leaves  of  the  Manuscript 
of  By  the  North  Sea  Swinburne  has  written  these  last  four 
lines  and  headed  them  "The  Ghost  of  it." 


194 


